tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62419202024-03-07T02:03:57.832-07:00LyzardlyLyzardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00590233353813007325noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241920.post-40127932385440387812015-01-21T10:36:00.001-07:002015-01-21T10:36:16.019-07:00Parenting Tips I Learned From NYC<div class="MsoNormal">
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When I moved to NYC after college, I was constantly doing and saying things
that made me stand out as an outsider. I made eye contact with everyone. I
didn’t know how to ignore anyone. Eventually, I learned. Thank gods I did too
because these skills quite useful when dealing with toddlers. <span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Here are a few parenting tricks I learned from living in
NYC:</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
Avoid eye contact.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">If
you make eye contact, smiling may have unintended consequences. These
consequences are unpredictable. You may end up being overwhelmed by the power
of human connection. You may be followed around when you try to leave by
someone demanding your personal attention. You may get feces thrown at you. Or
you may see your soul in their eyes & cry from the beauty of it all. You
just never know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">Ignore anyone who is being pushy & demanding/whining for your
attention. You don’t want what they’re selling. Do not engage. Otherwise, you
end up just giving them what they want so they will shut up – it may be $10 for
their crappy CD or letting them eat popsicles for
lunch while riding the dog. Either way, if you give in now, it will be harder to stay strong the next
time. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">Learn to eat everything standing up. The cheapest (& often best)
food in NYC is sold out of trucks or restaurants with little to no seating.
Sitting down to eat in NYC means you’ve got time and money to spare. As a
parent, it means you have a nanny. I’m not judging if you do have these things.
I just envy you. A lot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">Master the art of being completely aware of your surroundings.
Walking down the street in NYC is a bit like a dance. At any given time, you
may have to navigate through people, scaffolding, and dogs in sweaters while
avoiding pools of bodily fluids on the ground. Which is pretty much the same
thing as walking through my house, except replace “scaffolding” with toys and randomly rearranged
furniture. Oh, and our dogs don’t have sweaters. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">Finally, small acts of kindness are in your best interest. A
clear example of this is what happens when someone has a stroller in a subway
station. The best way to get your stroller up or
down the subway stairs is to just walk straight for them like they are a ramp.
Inevitably, when you are a step away, a stranger or two will grab the front
wheels and help you carry the stroller up the stairs. You can say thanks, but
they won't hear you - they have places to be & don't have time for the
consequences of eye contact. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">I have always opened doors for people. It never seemed a big deal to
me until I tried to get my double stroller through the ridiculous doors at
Barnes and Noble while hurried patrons tried to squeeze past me. I remember
thinking, “This would never happen in NYC.” When someone finally grabbed the
door and held it, I wanted to kiss her with gratitude. But she was on her way
before I could say thank you. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">The most important thing I learned from NYC, as a person and a parent,
was to be kind to people without expecting so much as a thank you in
return. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;">We are all in this together. If any one of us falls down, we all
suffer. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Garamond; mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><a href="http://yeahwrite.me/nonfiction-writing-challenge-197/"><img src="http://yeahwrite.me/wp-content/uploads/2014/10/nonfic197.png" /></a></div>
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Lyzardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00590233353813007325noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241920.post-79456122088493390722015-01-09T07:43:00.002-07:002015-01-09T07:43:16.924-07:00If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?<b>[THIS IS AN OLD POST FROM 2011 - I'VE ADDED A NOTE AT THE END EXPLAINING WHY I'VE RESURRECTED IT.]</b><br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">January's always bitter<br />But Lord this one beats all</span><br />
<br />
You're told that the New Year begins on January 1st, because the old year ends on December 31st. But January is not a beginning, it is a transition. Janus is the god of gates, of doorways - that place between where you've been and where you're going. The threshold over which new brides are carried, the doorframe upon which a mezuzah should be placed. The interstitial space. This is January.<br />
<br />
Janus sees the past and the future. Looking forward while looking back, but never looking within. What's gone before is reviewed, what's yet to come is planned, but what <i>is</i>... that gets lost, swallowed, forgotten. Where the other months are enjoyed, January is barely endured.<br />
<br />
A space of unknowability, the place of transformation that we pretend happens immediately. Though it feels like stagnation it is the necessary delay, for nothing happens instantaneously. It is the pause, pregnant with possibilities. We think that because we know where we've been and we believe to know where we're going, we know where we are. As though it is the past and the future which locate the present.<br />
<br />
I know where I've been. I know the trajectory I intend to go. But January is bringing about a hell of a metamorphosis, one I will only understand in hindsight. It has pried my frozen hands from the delusion of control, but the sensation hasn't returned to my fingertips. And while I realize these pieces of me have not been wrenched out - amidst this rearranging there is an emptiness and an ache. But I must keep a warm heart, staying supple and malleable. If I freeze, I'll shatter in the wind.<br />
<br />
<i>Tonight outside my window<br />There's a lonesome, mournful sound,<br />And I can't help but thinkin'<br />'Bout the ones the wolves pull down</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<b>A NOTE ON RESURRECTIONS - January 9, 2015</b><br />
I wrote this blogpost originally in January 2011. I had just started receiving letters of rejections from PhD programs (for the second time) and had learned the real extent of our fertility issues. After I placed my son for adoption in 1998, I had two goals: to be a professor & then to be a mother again, when I could provide a stable home.<br />
<br />
In January 2011, I felt that both of those dreams were wrenched from me within days of each other. That is where I was when I wrote this piece & I am reposting it because that's not where I am today.<br />
<br />
Today, I am grateful to have escaped the abusive relationship I had with academia.<br />
Today, I am listening to my sixteen month old twins giggle as they chase each other around the house - occasionally, stopping to wave or smile at me.<br />
Today, my spring has come even though the snow is falling outside.<br />
<br />
So I am posting this in case you are in the midst of a dark winter. I promise you, your spring will come. Until then, I've got extra blankets, hot cocoa, and mulled wine. You're welcome here anytime.Lyzardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00590233353813007325noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241920.post-58740904291477533132015-01-07T07:44:00.001-07:002015-01-07T07:44:57.421-07:00Old Flames & New<div class="MsoNormal">
The night we met I showed him my stretch marks. He called
them flames. </div>
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Ten years later, candles burn in our bedroom as he strokes
my belly and kisses the new flames our children etched into my skin. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="http://yeahwrite.me/micro-writing-challenge-195/"><img src="http://yeahwrite.me/wp-content/uploads/2014/10/microstories195.png" /></a></div>
Lyzardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00590233353813007325noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241920.post-44896045759646710982015-01-05T11:29:00.000-07:002015-01-05T11:30:37.135-07:00No Resolutions Here<div class="MsoNormal">
In late November and early December I started making plans
– thinking about the things I would do after the holidays and in the upcoming
year. Switch my blog from a blogspot to something more like a “real” website,
finish the steps to actually launch my Celebrancy business, apply to the
numerous freelance jobs I keep finding, and so on and so forth. I couldn’t
start any of these endeavors immediately because I knew I would be abandoning
my computer while in Utah to visit family. As such, it was convenient to
imagine a post-holiday Liz who would be well rested and motivated. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I have an amazing imagination. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Since getting back home, I have wanted to write and simultaneously
not wanted to write. I haven’t had anything good to say because I have been so exhausted
that everything, the good and funny stuff included, has been experienced
through a sour disposition. Even the best coffee tastes like crap if you’re
sipping it into a mouth full of piss and vinegar. So I’ve kept my mouth shut. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I had expected to come back to real life, take a couple of
days to adjust, and then regale you with my stories of air travel with twin
toddlers. But we've all been sick, are still sick or getting sick again and just thinking about the plane rides makes me tired. I will tell
you this: there was a hasty diaper change that occurred while taxiing to the
runway involving a escaped poop pancake. I didn’t get caught & I covered
everything in hand sanitizer, so I consider it a win. That’s really all I have
to say about traveling. Maybe after more sleep I’ll write more. Maybe I’ll
never have anything further to say about it. Feel free to place your bets with
your favorite bookie. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Now I’m home and the year has ended. Goodbye 2014. Those
dreams and aspirations I had prior to vacation feel a lot like New Year’s
resolutions. I hate New Year’s resolutions, largely because they often result
in a bunch of people refusing to eat cake or drink on my birthday. Early
January birthdays can be a bitch that way. Even so, it’s time for a change.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I need to distill those previously mentioned goals into the
desires behind them. Strip them of their self-important resolution-ish-ness and
see what’s left. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
~I want to write more often – not just blogs, but stories
and ceremonies too. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
~I want to contribute to our income.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
~I want to do more stuff that has nothing to do with my
offspring. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
~I want to have more time with My Love. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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That’s it. My focus and time has been filled with the
kidlets for almost a year and half – more if you include the time spent
pregnant and preparing. It’s time to pull back and expand the frame of my life
again. That’s really all I want & put that way, it doesn’t even sound like
a resolution. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://yeahwrite.me/nonfiction-writing-challenge-195/"><img src="http://yeahwrite.me/wp-content/uploads/2014/10/nonfic195.png" /></a></div>
Lyzardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00590233353813007325noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241920.post-85732842190924068582014-12-10T06:56:00.001-07:002015-01-21T10:44:34.465-07:00Flight Suggestions<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px;"><a href="http://yeahwrite.me/challenge-winners-191/"><img src="http://yeahwrite.me/wp-content/uploads/2014/12/editor191.png" /></a> </span><a href="http://yeahwrite.me/challenge-winners-191/" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px;"><img src="http://yeahwrite.me/wp-content/uploads/2014/11/crowd191.png" /></a></div>
<br />
We’re flying to Utah for the holidays. In preparation for flying
with fifteen-month old twins, I have developed a massive case of anxiety &
a few theories about how air travel might be improved. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You probably know that kids under 2 can fly in your lap.
This saves you the cost of paying for a seat they will refuse to sit in &
earns you the disdain of your fellow passengers. (Except the old lady that
reeks of cigarette smoke & coughs like the she has the plague. She wants to
kiss your baby, probably on the mouth.) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You may not be aware that the airlines only allow one lap
infant per row – nod knowingly with me, twin parents. So, Craig & I will be
sitting across the aisle from each other, each with a kid in our lap, on most of
our flights. For one flight, we could only get two aisle seats in sequential
rows. Which means the kid in the row further back can torture both parents simultaneously
by kicking the seat in front of her. Perfect.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, this brings me to my first suggestion. The airlines
have to keep track of which seats have lap infants because they cannot have two
in one row. The airlines also keep track of which seats have been purchased. I propose
that airlines indicate which seats, if any, will have lap infants during the
seat selection process of purchasing tickets. Let’s be honest – nobody wants to
sit next to the parent with the lap infant. You can be a perfectly nice human
being and still not enjoy the prospect of being squished up next to a baby,
doing normal baby things like crying & pooping, for HOURS. I expect to hate
it & they’re <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i> kids. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m willing to bet some people would look at different
flights rather than sit next to a baby. At the very least, forewarned is
forearmed. If I knew I was going to be seated next to a lap infant, I’d bring noise-canceling headphones, sleeping pills, and a $5 pashmina from a street
vendor that I could throw away if, let’s be honest – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">when</i>, it ends up covered in baby excretions. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My second suggestion is to help counter that anxiety I
mentioned. Imagine: the moment you confirm that you are flying with children
your itinerary gets forwarded to your primary care physician who writes you a
prescription for the anti-anxiety medication of your choosing. Brilliant,
right? Then you might be able to figure out how to pack extra clothes, toys,
food, diapers, bottles, and the all-important Benadryl into your carry-on
luggage, without innumerable panic attacks. Maybe. As long as you stop
picturing your child having a complete meltdown mid-flight because you packed
the wrong color pacifier, while the asshat two seats over loudly expresses that
HER kid wouldn’t dare act like that. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Speaking of that lady, my final suggestion grew out of a
desire to ingratiate myself to her, as well as the other hypothetical passengers
I keep imagining. I thought it would be a nice gesture to buy them all a drink.
Then I remembered that the cost of airline tickets during the holidays ate all
my money. So, I propose that the airlines offer a complimentary alcoholic
beverage to any adult passengers seated within two rows of a lap infant. On any
flight with more than two lap infants, ALL adult passengers should be given a
free alcoholic beverage – except those within one row of the lap infants –
THOSE poor sods should get two free drinks, minimum. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="http://yeahwrite.me/nonfiction-writing-challenge-191/"><img src="http://yeahwrite.me/wp-content/uploads/2014/10/nonfic191.png" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
Lyzardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00590233353813007325noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241920.post-61430840579882559182014-12-03T17:01:00.000-07:002014-12-03T17:01:49.665-07:00Forgive Me<div class="MsoNormal">
When you died people said, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s okay to cry.” <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[no
shit] </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s part of God’s plan.” <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>[fuck
your god]</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nobody told me I would wake up one day </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and forget to cry.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That day was today.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m sorry, Love. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://yeahwrite.me/micro-writing-challenge-190/"><img src="http://yeahwrite.me/wp-content/uploads/2014/10/microstories190.png" /></a></div>
Lyzardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00590233353813007325noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241920.post-47335029711020034812014-12-03T11:17:00.000-07:002015-01-21T10:45:28.761-07:00Finding Light in the Dark Season<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://yeahwrite.me/challenge-winners-190/" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px;"><img src="http://yeahwrite.me/wp-content/uploads/2014/12/editor190.png" /></a></div>
<br />
As a child, I used to listen to Christmas music and bawl.
Good King Wencesles could reduce me to tears in ten seconds. The Little
Matchgirl took five seconds, if that. There’s something about the winter that
makes the tears flow more easily. I suppose it could be seasonal affective
disorder, but that feels disingenuous to me.* </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Winter is a time of hibernation, of dying, of darkness.
Maybe I do just crave some extra Vitamin D, but it feels like these emotions
are natural for me. They feel as natural as the calm sense of reassurance that
floods through me when I bask in the sun. Denying the dark emotions is to deny
half of myself. The longest day of the year must be countered by the longest
night and so it is within me as well.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That the cycles of my emotions might follow the cycles of
the seasons seems as it should be. It is my understanding that most Christian
religions believe Jesus was actually born in the spring, but celebrating his
birth during the winter feels more necessary. Yes, there’s the whole "celebrate
around the time of the pagan holidays" thing, but I think – no I feel (it’s the
winter, I feel things instead of thinking them these days) – I feel that there
might be more. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The celebration of the lights that is Hannukah, the return of
the sun marked by Yule, the birth of the Son on Christmas – here we are, as human
beings, in need a reminder that it will get better, that the light will return
to us. We will feel the warmth again. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I used to make candles on the autumnal equinox and burn them
all night on winter solstice. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Between the cost of traveling to see family, gift giving,
and having to turn on the oil heat – winter is definitely a time of scarcity. I
reach for the light, for the warmth, for the promise of fecundity. For the past two years, I have been able to find that promise within my home. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The fertility treatments that brought us our twins
were done in the winter. I love this fact. I now have new dates to celebrate in the winter. We
transferred the embryos on 12/12/12. I found out I was pregnant the day after
Christmas. What more promise do I need, that we will find the sun again and
life will grow out of the darkness than the laughter of my children? My
beautiful, improbable but not impossible children, who began to grow in the darkness of winter. In the dark midwinter, they are my light. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although a
spice-scented candle & a glass of mulled wine certainly wouldn’t go amiss.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*I am not discounting the existence of Seasonal Affective Disorder, nor meaning to imply that it is something people should just suffer through. I only mean that I do not believe it is an appropriate diagnosis for myself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://yeahwrite.me/nonfiction-writing-challenge-190/"><img src="http://yeahwrite.me/wp-content/uploads/2014/10/nonfic190.png" /></a></div>
Lyzardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00590233353813007325noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241920.post-22809643670249195572014-11-17T11:44:00.000-07:002015-01-21T10:46:04.791-07:00Raising Entitled Children<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://yeahwrite.me/challenge-winners-188/" style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><img src="http://yeahwrite.me/wp-content/uploads/2014/11/editor188.png" /></a></div>
<br />
My grandfather called me his “blonde bombshell” when I was
three. “I’m NOT a blonde dumbbell!” I yelled & punched him in
the nose.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Somewhere along the way, that self-assured kid got lost. She
learned that she laughed too loudly for a girl, that boys would pick her for
their kickball team but would never want to kiss her if she was good at sports,
that fat was the worst thing she could ever be, that she was smart but it was
arrogant to admit it, & that the only acceptable way to speak about herself
was negatively.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I said she got lost but truthfully, I buried her. I put duct tape over
her loud mouth & hog-tied her active limbs. I’m not sure exactly when, but
I remember feeling too loud, too abrasive, just too much of everything in
elementary school. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In fifth grade, I started to wear a bra & get hips. The
other girls my age didn’t need bras or have curvy hips. I wasn’t only too loud,
too rough, too snarky, I now had too much body. Everything about me felt
excessive & I wanted to shrink. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I curled inside myself and didn’t feel entitled to anything,
not even love. Sometimes I didn’t even feel entitled to the life I had been
given & a few times, I tried to give that life back to the earth by taking
it away from myself. I was ten years old the first time I attempted suicide. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I believed that I had nothing to offer the future. I didn’t
feel entitled to breathe the air that someone else could use. I had already taken
too much, been too much, & I wanted to be nothing. I wanted to shrink and
get out of everyone’s way. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have since rediscovered that brazen, self-assured little girl
who would punch anyone, even her grandfather, for calling her stupid. Not only
within myself, but I see her in my daughters
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<!--StartFragment--><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I don’t want them to lose her, as I did.</span> I worry that they won’t feel entitled to all that is theirs by birth.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They are entitled to grow, to explore, to fail,
to succeed, to love, to live, to learn, and to fail a hell of a lot more.
Sadly, I expect they will have to fight for those things. The world will never
let my kids forget that they were designated female at birth. If they are
trans*, they’ll face a higher risk of physical or sexual violence based on that
fact alone. If they are cis, they’ll fare a bit better. The world will try to
pay them $0.72 for every $1.00 it pays cismen. The world will tell them their
worth is tied to their bodies, which will be too much or not enough. The world
will tell them their worth is tied to their sexuality, their sexual experiences
or lack of them. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The world will tell my kids they are not entitled to bodily
autonomy. It will tell them through judging their clothing choices, their
decisions to pierce or not pierce their bodies, to tattoo or not tattoo their
bodies, to have or not have children. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The world will tell my children they are not entitled.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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It is my job to do everything in my power to help them hold
on to their entitlement throughout the barrage and assault the world will throw
at them. It breaks my heart to admit this, but I may not succeed. But you can
bet I will do my damnedest to raise a couple of entitled children. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="http://yeahwrite.me/nonfiction-writing-challenge-188/"><img src="http://yeahwrite.me/wp-content/uploads/2014/10/nonfic188.png" /></a></div>
Lyzardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00590233353813007325noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241920.post-45511660817146892412014-11-12T17:41:00.000-07:002014-11-12T17:41:00.708-07:00Letting Myself Go<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">I saw an essay recently about "Moms
who have really let themselves go." The non-Mom author felt her Mom
friends shouldn't be surprised to discover that their sex lives have dwindled,
their partners are unfaithful, and their friends avoid them - since these Moms<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have
really let themselves go</i>. They don’t take time to do their hair or wear
makeup. They haven’t lost the pregnancy weight& wear unflattering clothes.
Just really <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">let themselves go</i>. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">This sparked two visceral
reactions within me: <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">1) I wanted to punch her in the face.
If your partner is cheating or your friends reject you over your hair, makeup,
& clothing – they are ASSHOLES. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">2) I thought, “But I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have </i>let myself go, haven’t I?” I feel
frumpy. My twins are fourteen months old. The pregnancy weight I lost so
quickly after they were born (nothing burns calories like a breastpump) is
creeping back. I find myself thinking, "Shouldn't I have more energy than
this?" <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">In these moments, I completely
forget that I still get up with at least one kid in the middle of the night
regularly. I also forget that I spend nearly every waking hour caring for two toddlers.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">I never wear my hair down and rarely
wear makeup. As for clothes – no, they don’t fit right. My body has permanently
shifted and changed. Nothing I bought before I was pregnant will ever fit me in
the same way again. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">I need new clothes & a
haircut. Desperately. Yet, every time I consider making an appointment for my
hair or going shopping I calculate how long I could feed my children for the
same cost. I forget my children aren't starving. Yes, money is tight. There
will never be a day when money is not tight. The twins will always need things,
but so will I.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">I<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> have</i> let myself go. I have let go of my wants & prioritized
their needs, their wants, and the things I imagine they might want. Not all of
this is bad. It's good to be a bit self-sacrificing as a person and especially as
a parent. Kids are tiny people trying to figure out what it means to be human
and there are a lot of things they need help with on their journey. They can’t
feed or clean themselves when they’re teeny. We need to do that for them, for
now. In the future, as their own abilities progress and allow, we need to stop
doing that for them. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">This isn’t just about stuffing
their faces and wiping their butts. This is about everything. Most children
will move out eventually and they will need to know how to care for themselves.
Perhaps more importantly, I am modeling roles and behaviors for them. How can I
expect my kids to believe that a woman doesn’t have to sacrifice herself on the
altar of motherhood if that’s what I’m doing every single day? <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">I love me. I’m a wonderful person
who has done and been amazing things before I had my twins. I don’t want to let
go of that version of me because I’m a mom. I want to add mother to my list of
awesome traits and roles. I don’t want it to consume all the others. That has
nothing to do with wearing yoga pants and skipping the makeup. But it has
everything to do with taking time to take care of myself. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;">I’m okay with letting myself go,
but I’m not going to let go of me. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<br />
<o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://yeahwrite.me/nonfiction-writing-challenge-187/"><img src="http://yeahwrite.me/wp-content/uploads/2014/10/nonfic187.png" /></a></span></o:p>Lyzardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00590233353813007325noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241920.post-44293339392096611502014-11-05T17:55:00.000-07:002014-11-05T17:57:56.085-07:00Three<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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In 1984, we had three children. We made a paving stone with
their handprints. All our photos were lost in the fire. That paving stone is the only proof that
for one month in 1984, we had three children.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://yeahwrite.me/micro-writing-challenge-186/"><img src="http://yeahwrite.me/wp-content/uploads/2014/11/microstories-186.png" /></a></div>
Lyzardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00590233353813007325noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241920.post-74705939596934724902014-11-05T08:15:00.000-07:002014-11-05T08:15:53.361-07:00Safe<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
Her name was Jessica and she was very brave. </div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
People think she was a
coward. They say she gave up, as though that was easy. They talk about other
people who are still alive, as though bravery is based on your ability to
breathe, as though calling these others “brave” can make up for their own
gratitude that they are not one of these others. </div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
“You are so brave. I don’t know how you endure.” They coo
patronizingly. “Not like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">her</i>.”</div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
“It’s the coward’s way out.”</div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
“It’s so selfish.” <br />
“She had to know how much it would hurt <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">us.</i>”
As though she owed it to them to suffer. So they could call her brave and sleep
peacefully through the night, confident that, as bad as they had it – she had
it worse. </div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
Without a pariah to gauge your life against, how can you be
certain of your own goodness?</div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
Her name was Jessica and she was very brave. </div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
I know. She went before me. I was too scared to go first. </div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
“But what if death is worse?” I had asked her. </div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
“It might be.” she had said. “If they’re right, He will punish us.” <span style="text-indent: 0in;">She blinked
back tears, even though I had been weeping openly for awhile now.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
“I’ll go first.” She said resolutely, “and then, I’ll come
back for you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<o:p> </o:p><span style="text-indent: 0in;">She pulled me close for a hug and whispered, “I’ll see if it’s
safe.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="text-indent: 0in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="text-indent: 0in;">Just like she had every time we tried to run away. She would always go
first. She’d get caught and punished before I ever got out of my bed. She
would come back to our room, bleeding, welts rising, bruises forming, and
whisper gently, “It’s not safe. Not just yet.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
It was never safe. Not for my sister. She never let me go to
check. </div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
“I’ll see if it’s safe.”</div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
And though it never was, I was always safe. Because she went
first. </div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
I stayed with her body for hours, they tell me. She took the
pills and we laid down on her bed. She put her arms around me and whispered,
“I’ll see if it’s safe.” </div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
I fell asleep, listening to the sound of her breathing as it
slowed. </div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
I’m still waiting for her. They took her body away and moved
me from her bed, from our home to another bed, somewhere else. But I know
she’ll be able to find me. She would never leave me behind. </div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
Sometimes in my dreams, I can see her. At first she was so far
away, she was just a vague impression of herself. But every night she gets
closer. I’ve been storing my pills so I’ll be ready when she gets here. </div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
Last night, she reached for me and whispered something I
couldn’t quite understand. I wanted to join her then, but I promised not to go
before she knew it was safe. </div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
I’m awake, but I can see her when I close my eyes. For once,
she’s not bleeding. There’s not a blemish on her skin. </div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
Her name is Jessica. She is my sister. She is very brave.</div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
She grabs my hand and smiles.</div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpLast" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
“It’s safe.”</div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpLast" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoteLevel1CxSpLast" style="margin-left: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0in;">
<a href="http://yeahwrite.me/fiction-poetry-writing-challenge-186/"><img src="http://yeahwrite.me/wp-content/uploads/2014/10/fiction186.png" /></a></div>
Lyzardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00590233353813007325noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241920.post-18149650215869035942014-10-16T10:59:00.000-06:002014-10-16T10:59:33.492-06:00This is me – not shutting up <div class="MsoNormal">
A couple of days ago I blogged about being a stay at home
mom who isn’t going to shut up, no matter how passive-aggressively you ask me
to via blogpost. Days like today are why. Because days like today happen, all
too frequently. And sometimes we can laugh at them as they happen and sometimes
we can’t. Today, I couldn’t. But I think that as I take the time to type this
up and (naptime permitting) re-read for edits, I might be able to laugh a bit.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I got to bed at a reasonable hour last night & managed
to fall right to sleep, thanks in part to being a bit sick – but not sick
enough to justify going out to buy more NyQuil. The babies slept through the
night & I was able to wake up slowly and leisurely. Imagine my surprise
when I learned it wasn’t yet 6:00 am – but I felt rested! So, I took a shower,
which I never get to do before naptime, had some coffee, and even had time to
read a little before the twins started to wake up at 8:30! These kids are
usually up & ready to go by 7:00. So this morning really felt like a rare
gift. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, but once they woke up…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We use cloth diapers at home. Although we started using
disposables overnight when the monkey child got a fierce diaper rash that would
start to heal during the day (when I was changing diapers every two hours) and
then flare up overnight (when she was in the same diaper for 8-12 hours). The
upside to using the disposables is that they do a better job of wicking away
the moisture & lessen the chance that a baby will wake me up for a diaper
change overnight. The downside is that if the babies sleep in a bit, or happen
to poop overnight, the disposables just explode. They split down the seams
& all the nasty little gel beads that absorb the pee spill out all over the
place. This morning both babies slept in AND pooped overnight. Their pajamas
were filled with nasty little gel beads of chemicals and pee. There is no easy
way to clean this up, but I did the best I could – which means I made sure the
babies were clean and free of pee beads, but I had piles of towels, diapers,
etc that were being use as makeshift pee bead containers. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While I was changing the monkey child, the bug child snuck
over to stand on her tippy toes & grab the leg of her pee bead filled
pajamas. Once she had a good grip on that sucker, she ran – spilling pee beads
everywhere – out of the nursery, across the hall, through the kitchen, and to
her high chair. I put the monkey child, clad only in a diaper, in the living
room & managed to get the bug to let go of her pjs, wash her hands, and
then sit in her high chair. Meanwhile, the monkey was gleefully running
half-naked through the house. One child secured, I grabbed the other, got her
dressed, & strapped her into her high chair. And we had breakfast. While
the kitchen floor was covered in pee beads.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After breakfast, I put the kids in the playroom &
cleaned up the pee beads. I thought to myself, “These days happen. But the kids
seem in good moods & I got a full night’s sleep. Today can still be great.”
And then I looked in the playroom and saw a pile of dog shit in the corner. The
babies were on the other side of the playroom, so I quietly cleaned up the dog
shit. While I was congratulating myself on managing to clean it up without the
kids noticing, I realized they were no longer in the playroom. This isn’t panic
inducing - they often play in the living room so I wandered in to see what they
were doing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Apparently, the other dog had also shit in the house. (Why?
Because it’s raining outside and even if I leave them outside all day, they
will wait until they come in the house to shit & I want to kill them. But I
digress.) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Both children had a handful of dog shit. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The monkey child was smearing it on the wall & the bug
child was tasting it, spitting it out, and tasting it again. I grabbed the
still-warm dog shit out of the babies’ hands, with my own bare hands, and we
all went into the bathroom for some serious cleaning, while I gagged a lot
& called poison control to make sure I didn’t need to take the bug to the
ER or something. (Protip: Nope. Feces is gross, but unless the dog is sick or
the kid starts vomiting or has diarrhea, there’s no risk of poisoning.) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All clean, but emotionally raw, I put the babies in the
playroom & took the dogs outside so I didn’t strangle them. I thought to
myself, “One day, when I don’t feel like the worst mom on the planet, I will
find this funny.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I walked in the house just in time to see the bug child
smash a wooden block into the monkey child’s head. I yelled, “NO!” In response,
the bug threw her sister on the floor and proceeded to smash the block into the
monkey child’s face repeatedly while laughing hysterically. I ran as fast as I
could with my stupid foot in a brace to rescue the monkey, who was sobbing but
not bleeding. After a quick inspection revealed there was no major damage, I
collapsed on a chair, clinging to the child in my lap and bawled. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tried to put the bug in “time out,” but then the monkey
cried because she wanted to be in “time out.” {Clearly, I do “time out” wrong.)
So I put the monkey in “time out” & I texted my mom & sisters. I called
a couple of people, but they have lives and I just got their voicemail. I
called my husband at work – which I never do – and cried. And he did his
damnedest to not laugh. And the bug started to throw things at the monkey in “time
out” so I got off the phone. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I put the kids into their jumperoos, turned on a Baby
Signing Time DVD, and knowing they were safe – hid in the bathroom for a few
minutes. Then I brewed a fresh pot of coffee, drank a bunch of water, ate a
protein bar, & cleaned up the nursery because remember the pee beads? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This all happened within an hour of the babies waking up. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We had lunch & played a bit. I just put them down to
nap. My husband came home early. I’m finally drinking that second pot of coffee
I brewed and listening to the sound of the rain outside & my fingers on the
keyboard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Today could still be a great day. </div>
Lyzardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00590233353813007325noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241920.post-17179507470948839212014-10-14T10:30:00.000-06:002014-10-14T10:30:06.181-06:00I’m a stay at home mom and I will not shut up <div class="MsoNormal">
There’s an article that I’ve seen making the rounds on
Facebook over the last couple of days titled, <a href="http://www.lifetimemoms.com/parenting/stay-home-moms-shut-up" target="_blank">“Dear Stay At Home Moms, Please Shut Up.</a>” I almost didn’t read it because it was so antagonistically titled,
but then I saw it liked by people I love and some of whom I’ve called when this
whole SAHM gig was feeling overwhelming. I decided that maybe the article
wasn’t a bunch of “Mommy Wars” BS – even if the title was & gave it a read.
I was wrong.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are SO MANY THINGS in her article that are
problematic (heterocexism, classism, I could go on), but I’m not going to pick it apart piece by piece. I’m going to
simply disagree with her whole premise that stay at home moms need to “be
content or quit whining.” The thing is, I refuse to be content in a situation
that needs to change. I don’t mean the situation of me being a stay at home
parent, I mean the situation that makes it such a thankless, untenable position
in our society. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I will not stop talking about how hard it is, as long as the
Huffington Post and other websites keep trotting out articles from well-meaning
husbands that can be summed up as “I thought my wife was lazy, but then I
stayed home with the kids & turns out – it’s a tough gig. That’s right – we
can now agree that parenting is hard because I, A MAN, said so! Now applaud me
for discounting my wife’s experiences until I had them for myself!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I will not stop talking about career dreams until people
stop claiming the wage gap exists because women choose to stay home and raise
kids – when it actually starts with a woman’s first job out of college and is often
the REASON women (instead of men) stay home with the kids, NOT the other way
around. Our plan was to have my husband stay home, but he makes more than me
& with twins we simply cannot afford for me to work. Fulltime childcare
costs more than I have ever made, despite my graduate degree & long work
history. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s the thing – I actually feel quite lucky to stay home
with my kids. I know my husband would rather spend his days with them than
behind a desk, even if he finds his job challenging and fulfilling. And even
though, I often envy that he gets to shower every day – not too mention leave
the house before the first poopy diaper needs to changed – I am happy to listen
to him if he has complaints about his day or if he is sad to have missed a
milestone. And he listens to me when I tell him about how exhausted I am or how
lonely it can get in the middle of the day when I’m doing my third load of
laundry for the day. Because we’re not assholes to each other. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The same is true of my friends. Parents and non-parents,
stay at home, work at home, full-time employed, full-time students, unemployed,
whatever. I listen to them and they listen to me. Life is hard, no matter your
choices or circumstances, sometimes things suck. When those times come, I need
someone who I know I can call and say, “Today is hard. Sometimes I just want to
runaway to Bermuda.” And they will not think that means I don’t love my
children or my spouse or my life. They will just know that I need a friend and
they will listen. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The author of the article telling me to please, shut up
says, “Just stop knocking on my door with your greasy hair and your caffeine
withdrawals and sit at my kitchen table and try to convince me that your
children are Satan's spawn and gripe that you had to clean all three toilets
today.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In response, I offer this: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Come knock on my door. Sit at my kitchen table. I’ll brew a
fresh pot of coffee and listen. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You can tell me about how your children are Satan’s spawn
& I’ll laugh and know that only children you love so deeply could drive you
to say that. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You can tell me about how, as a working parent, you’re
heartbroken that you missed your child’s first step & I’ll know that you
sacrificed being there at that moment to put food on the table or achieve your
career goals. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You can tell me that working from home means you have to do all the laundry and still meet work deadlines, even when all the kids and the dogs are puking & I'll know you love your kids, your dogs, & your job if you're willing to put up with all that to not have to give up any of it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You can tell me about how you never want kids, but work or
school feels like it’s sucking the life out of you & I’ll encourage to
follow your dreams. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You can tell me that you never wanted kids, but now you’re
pregnant & don’t know what to do & I’ll tell you I trust you to know
what is right for you as you make your decision. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You can tell me that you really want kids, but just found
out you can’t have them & would really rather meet me at coffeeshop without
my kids & I will meet you at that coffeeshop and not mention my kids until
you bring them up. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Simply put, you can be a human being having a hard time and
I won’t be an asshole to you. Life is hard. Even when we have everything we
wanted, there are some days we need to vent. If I’ve learned anything in this
last year plus of being a stay at home parent, it’s that we need each other. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last February, I only left the house twice. In the whole
month. My steep driveway was a sheet of ice. We had to leave the car in a
neighbor’s driveway for a week. It was really hard. And I called some of you.
Some of you came over in your AWD vehicles and hung out with me. Some of you
listened to me cry about how lonely I felt. Some of you let me cook for you.
Some of you came over and cooked for me. Nobody told me to “be content or quit
complaining.” Maybe you wanted to, but you didn’t. Instead you listened. And
when I was done complaining, we talked about the wonder in my life and I was
able to be content. Because when things suck, they don’t get better by
pretending they don’t suck. If your situation sucks and you need to change it,
I encourage you to do so. But if your situation is generally good and some days
you happen get tired of being puked upon or shit upon – literally or
metaphorically – and just need to vent then I offer you my friendship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Come knock on my door. Sit at my kitchen table. I’ll brew a
fresh pot of coffee and listen. This can also be redeemed via phone.</div>
Lyzardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00590233353813007325noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241920.post-57011762161259490552014-09-29T11:14:00.002-06:002014-09-29T11:16:37.761-06:00Walking the Walk - Body Love Edition<div class="MsoNormal">
I started hating my body in elementary school. I got boobs,
not even real boobs just boob nubs, in fifth grade & I started to gets hips
around the same time. I remember staring into the mirror & wishing I could
just cut a straight line from my waist & slice away my nascent curves. In
middle school we talked about anorexia. A picture of Karen Carpenter weighing
double digits was passed around. I think the idea was to shock us with her
thinness, but I wasn’t shocked. I was impressed. I was in awe of these women
who had such self-control that they could deny themselves food & control
their bodies. I felt controlled by my body.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In my mind, my body was excessive in every way. It grew
curves, hair, & desires without my permission. It was a hungry, desirous
pile of flesh careening towards being the worst things a body could be: fat and
slutty. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I hit 100 pounds, I figured there was no way back. I
was obviously fat and going to stay that way forever. When I kissed a boy for
the first time, I figured there was no way back. I was obviously a slut and
going to stay that way forever. And I was devastated. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It has taken years to heal the feelings of loathing I
nurtured towards my body. It has been a struggle to balance embracing my body
and taking steps to be a healthier version of myself without waging a war of
hatred against my body. But I have made a lot of progress. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I love my body for what it has done and continues to do.
This body has carried and birthed three children – two at the same time! This
body fed two of my children for the first 7.5 months of their lives. This body
shudders in pleasure. This body receives and gives love. This body curves and
shakes and dances. This body basks in warmth, shivers in cold, and is my all
around tactile window into this physical world. It warns me with pain, shares
my emotions through expressions & tears, and even reminds me to eat. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I no longer think of my body as separate from me. It is me.
I am my body. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Loving myself and my body is not to claim that I am not
flawed or that my body & I are as healthy and active as I'd like us to be. My body is in recovery from carrying twins, even over a year after their birth. I am going to physical therapy, but it's hard to not just go full-speed ahead. I am imperfect. I struggle with balance and moderation. But I work hard to be gentle with myself, both physically and emotionally, even though my recovery from the twin pregnancy is taking far longer than I anticipated. I try to love my body as it is, even in transition, but I don't always succeed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Recently, I was watching my one year old daughters trying to learn to walk. The monkey child is
built just like me. I see it most of all in her legs. There’s a curve on her
inner knee and she has the most adorable one year old cankles. I noticed these
things because somehow I still believed these physical traits in my legs were
flaws that needed fixing. Flaws that I could somehow erase if I lost enough
weight, if I just had enough self-control. My kid is proof that I will have
these legs, these lumps, these cankles – even at 20 lbs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today I’m focusing on loving my legs, as they are, so that
when my daughter realizes she has the same legs, she will have an example of
what it means to love your lumps, bumps, and cankles. </div>
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Lyzardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00590233353813007325noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241920.post-91140724054913108852014-08-26T10:10:00.001-06:002014-08-26T10:10:45.235-06:00Birthdays<div class="MsoNormal">
On August 26, 1998, my son was born. I gave my son the first
name of my fiancé (we never married), my father’s middle name, & my last
name. I gave him their names to share him with them but to me, he was only
mine. He gave me a reason to become a better person. I stayed awake for
practically three days straight so that I wouldn’t miss a moment. I gave him my
heart & he took it with him three days later when I gave him new parents. They
gave him a new name & all the things I could not.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On August 26, 2013, my daughters were born. We gave them
first names we loved, a middle name that I share with my mother, aunt, sisters,
cousin, & niece, and both of our last names. I listened to my husband &
daughters snore in the hospital room and slept every chance I could. I gave
them my heart & we took them home three days later. My son turned fifteen.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today is August 26, 2014 and my daughters turn one year old.
They have turned my world, my life, & my house upside down. I have called
friends and family to share moments of joy. I have called friends & family
to cry and beg them to reassure me that I’m a good mom. I have laughed and
cried (sometimes simultaneously) more in the past year than any other year I
remember. I have struggled with and reveled in being a stay at home mom. At one
point I sat on the kitchen floor crying to Craig as I made the decision to stop
trying to breastfeed after 5 months. Today, I sat on the kitchen floor with a
crying child and kissed an owie all better. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Today is August 26, 2014 and my son turns sixteen years old.
I have never regretted my decision to place him for adoption, but I miss him always.
Every milestone I share with my daughters reminds me of the milestones I’ve
missed with him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Happy Birthday Kids, I love you all. </div>
Lyzardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00590233353813007325noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241920.post-16971339858441410512014-08-13T09:11:00.000-06:002014-08-13T09:11:15.896-06:00Entitled. Spoiled. Disrespectful.<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Kids these days are …”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It has become so clichéd to complain about the behavior of
younger generations that it’s tough to even say the above phrase in any tone of
voice other than a terrible impersonation of an old man. But clichéd or not,
the complaints keep coming. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Entitled. Spoiled. Disrespectful. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
See a kid act out in public and any number of bystanders
will start conversations about how their kids would never dare, or how when
they were children they would never dare, all the while shaking their heads and
giving the parent looks of pity, derision, or a combination of the two. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Recently, a story went viral about some guy buying over 20
pies from Burger King to spite a bratty child behind him in line. Story goes,
kid was screaming for a pie, so grown man in front of him buys every last pie
to make sure the kid doesn’t get what he wants. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And cheers of joy erupted from the internet. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While the story is very likely a fiction, the sheer number
of “Good for him!” responses was a bit staggering to me. A lot of the
responses were along the lines of, “It’s about time the kid learned a real
world lesson.” What real world scenario have you encountered in your adult life
that mirrors this? When was the last time someone who was twice your height &
five to ten times your weight spent more money than you earn in a week or month
or year to buy twenty of the things you wanted, just to make sure you didn’t get
one? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, but the guy had to listen to that obnoxious kid, you
say? How long do you think the self-styled hero of this tale was waiting in
line? Five minutes? Ten minutes? Certainly if the wait was as long as twenty or
thirty minutes at Burger King, the adults in line would be throwing tantrums,
not just the bratty kid – so it’s tough for me to believe it could have been
that long. With that in mind, who is the person with the real instant
gratification problem here? The child, who is acting his age or the adult who
is acting like a child? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It seems that everybody wanted to see the kid put in his
place, but if anyone dared to mention that it was the mother, not the kid, who
was really going to suffer – it became clear that people wanted her to suffer
as well. She raised him, after all. It’s her fault he’s such a brat, so she
should have to live with his brattiness. According to the court of public
opinion, this kid and his mother needed to be taught a lesson by this guy who
had to suffer while waiting in line for his fast food. Why? They dared to have a bad day in public.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I guarantee you that every child, even those raised exactly
the way YOU think they should be raised, will throw a tantrum at some point in
their lives. Every. Single. Child. Because they are CHILDREN. They are trying
to figure out how to be in human in a tiny body that is often overcome with emotions
– as powerful as any you encounter in your adult life, but without any physical
power to do anything about those emotions. Do they manipulate, whine, cry, and
throw tantrums to try and get what they want? Yes. In the beginning of their
lives, those are the only tools they have at their disposal. And yes, as they
get older, they should learn to behave better – we all should. But please don’t
pretend that children are the only ones who throw temper tantrums, not even the only ones in
public. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m calling bullshit because I’ve worked in customer
service. I’ve witnessed fully grown adults screaming at sales clerks in retail
stores over pennies. I’ve watched the videos of store clerks <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">literally trampled to death</i> by a bunch
of adults on Black Friday. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t think the massive support for this man-child revenge
fiction is because people honestly think such behavior will result in the
actual child becoming a better human as a result of this “lesson.” It seems to
me, that it provided a release valve for a whole section of people who simply
hate the fact that they have to share the world with children & parents. If
you look at the comments sections of any of the articles referencing this
story, you will find gems like, “I shouldn’t have to suffer because YOU didn’t
use birth control.” And other, far more colorful comments, that exude an
intolerance of all things children. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You don’t want kids. I think that’s great. But that doesn’t
mean you get to live in a childfree world. You have to share public spaces with
other members of the public, even if they are younger than you & having a
bad day. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Adults these days are so…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Entitled. Spoiled. Disrespectful. </div>
Lyzardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00590233353813007325noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241920.post-1077747865840106342014-07-29T18:01:00.001-06:002014-07-29T18:01:20.833-06:00DOING THINGS THAT SCARE ME
<div class="p1">
Sometimes the things that scare me are very mundane. Things I would have done without a second thought before I had a set of twins to haul around while I did them. For example, today I stopped for food at Panera with the twins while running errands. Panera is always a madhouse. There's barely room to walk around, let alone push a double stroller - but I was hungry & the food I can get at a drive-thru makes me feel like crap & I'm re-committing to taking care of myself even though it's so much easier to eat crap & feel like crap. So I went to Panera because it's better than McDonald's. (Yes, I realize that less bad does not equal good, but sometimes good is out of your grasp & less bad equals good enough for now.) </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
If you have never attempted to take a child or two to Panera, I don't expect you to understand how this could be intimidating. So I'll just walk you through it. Taking the twins to Panera requires getting through a set of awkwardly not quite aligned doors spaced <i>just barely</i> far enough apart that you almost need to have both doors open at the same time to get the stroller inside the building. Inevitably, people give irritated sighs and huffs as I try to finagle my way in the doors, but nobody holds a door open for me. Today, I found myself holding the door open for a woman playing on her smartphone who barely mustered a distracted wave of thanks. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
Then I use the wheelchair accessible part of the line because the stroller doesn't work in the labyrinth of ropes that they set up to manage the line. I make a note of the person who came in after me & decide I will stake my claim to the place behind her. I tell the people who come in the door next that I am in line directly ahead of them, I just can't fit in the standard line. Today those people are a middle-aged woman, who smiles understandingly, and a teenaged guy, who rolls his eyes at me. Whatever. I wait my turn. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
When I go to order, I have to leave the stroller behind because I literally cannot get to the register with it. So I stand halfway between the register and the stroller, loudly giving my order & keeping my kids entertained with silly faces at the same time. The woman who takes my order happens to be a twin and tells me I'm lucky my twins are not identical like she and her sister because "Ohhh, the shit we would pull!" We all smile and laugh as she takes my order. I tell her I plan on eating there, but to please pack it to go so I don't have to try to carry plates, cups, and push the stroller at the same time. I feel a twinge of guilt at the wastefulness of using disposable items when I have the option for something else, but brush it off as I imagine dropping a plate of salad & hot cup of coffee on a child's head. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
While waiting for my food to be ready, I maneuvered the double stroller through the crowd, found a table, set up two high chairs, & then made faces at the kids until the food was ready. Then I took the kids (still in the stroller) with me to pick up the food. Got back to the table, realized I forgot my drink & headed back through the madness to get my drink, a flurry of "excuse me," "thank you," & "sorry" as people cut me off, walk into me, and basically act like they've never seen a stroller in public. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
Finally, back at the table I get each twin into a high chair, park the stroller in the least obtrusive place possible & settle in to eat. </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
The twins were happily chowing down on fresh fruit & a grilled cheese sandwich. I was slicing fruit & bits of sandwich for them in between taking bites of my salad. And though I was exhausted, I was feeling pretty damn good about what I had accomplished. It was a hassle - but here I am, eating a meal in public with my kids who aren't throwing food or screaming. And I'm eating something that actually qualifies as food. I'm completely unaware of anything but my kids and our meals. It dawns on me that this is their first grilled cheese sandwich. Hell, it's their first sandwich. I resist the urge to take a picture. It's as close to serene as life with twins gets when they're awake.</div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Then I hear this: "Tattoos on moms are so trashy. Doesn't she realize how embarrassing it will be for her kids that their mom has tattoos?" </div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
You guys, I wish I could say I had a biting comeback or shot them a nasty glare or at the very least kept quiet to practice showing my kids that assholes like that aren't worth getting upset. But none of that is true. Instead, I just deflated. I didn't buy into their bullshit idea that my tattoos make me trashy & therefore a bad mom. It wasn't that at all. It was that I had just done this BIG SCARY THING and some petty bitches who had just watched me do it felt the need to point out what they perceived as my flaws, to tell me that I wasn't enough, that no matter what I do, I will never be enough. And that's the scariest thing of all. </div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
The fear that creeps in when I can't sleep at night. The unnamed, omnipresent dread in that back of mind - that even if I do ALL the things that scare me, I will still not be enough. Enough of what? For whom? I don't know - enough of everything, for everyone. But the truth is - there's no way I could be enough of everything for everyone - so this fear will always win by pretending that not being everything to everyone is somehow a failure on my part instead of simply being the nature of reality. </div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Most of the time, I laugh at this fear. I don't want to be everything to everyone, so good thing I can't. But sometimes, when I'm extra tired or threadbare, the lies of fear are easier to believe. And THAT'S what these bitches did. They made me believe the lies of my fear - right there, in the middle of the day, in front of my children. And I felt defeated. Not enough. </div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
But that didn't last for long. An older woman walked up to me and said loudly, "You're doing great! Judging people is SO TRASHY, don't you think? Don't they realize how their ignorance must embarrass their children?" She smiled at me and said softly, "They're beautiful and so are you." I thanked her. </div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
And then a man a few tables away asked the twins' age. I told him they are eleven months old. He smiled, "My twin boys turn a year old this week. I wouldn't dare take them to a restaurant by myself. You're very brave and an inspiration." </div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
As the petty bitches left they cooed at the babies. I didn't even look at them. I was too busy sharing a moment of triumph with my kids. </div>
Lyzardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00590233353813007325noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241920.post-77689106273412214582013-03-21T08:30:00.000-06:002013-03-21T08:30:22.373-06:00Steubenville is just one instance...In the days after the Steubenville rape verdict, I have been grateful to see that my personal social media circle has lack the victim blaming, rape apologizing, and other infuriating responses that have peppered the landscape of national media and social media. The outrage has been swift and visceral. But there is a desire to explain it as an isolation - contain it to the football-loving, dying steel town of Steubenville, Ohio. I understand this desire.<br />
<br />
The humiliation, violation, and dehumanization of Jane Doe at the hands of her peers is appalling. Even more appalling is the fact that these young men so obviously felt they were doing nothing wrong, that they recorded it in photographs, twittered about it, made jokes about how she was "so raped right now." Let's be clear - they knew it was rape. They used the very word rape. They just didn't believe that they could get in trouble for it.<br />
<br />
We want to label them as aberrations. We want to pretend that the toxic masculinity these boys have internalized is limited to "there" - it couldn't happen "here," even though everywhere is "here" for someone.<br />
<br />
Steubenville made national news. Have you heard about Torrington, CT yet? <a href="http://www.registercitizen.com/articles/2013/03/20/news/doc51493e14b1a0a944806262.txt">The town where two 18 yr old high school football players are currently facing charges of sexually assaulting a 13 yr old girl</a>? The town where days after the charges were filed, the youth of Torrington responded to the charges with victim-blaming on social media? "What was a 13 yr old girl doing hanging around with 18 yr old guys?" & "I wanna know why theres no punishment for young hoes"and others.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://arkansasmatters.com/fulltext?nxd_id=646682">Have you heard about the special needs student who was beaten and raped in the West Memphis High bathroom</a>? When the 15 yr old student reported the rape to his principal, the principal sent him back to class. Later he reported it to his aunt and the three boys involved were arrested and gave conflicting stories. Student A says Student B raped the boy. Student B says Student A raped the boy. Student C says nobody raped the boy. Amazingly, one of the accused told his aunt, "he was only trying to help the boy." Which sounds strikingly similar to the bullshit text message sent to the father of Jane Doe from the Steubenville case by one of her rapists claiming, he was trying to keep her safe.<br />
<br />
Please don't pretend that if you dont live in Ohio, Connecticut, and Arkansas - this can't happen in your town. It can and it will if we don't change the way we treat discussions of rape, sexual assault, women, masculinity, and femininity in our society. In the words of former NFL quarterback Don McPherson, "We don't teach our boys to grow up to be men, we teach them to grow up not to be women." We teach our boys to value women, based on their relationships to men. Women are "daughters, wives, and mothers" - so the rhetoric goes. How about women are human beings and derive their value from their status as such, not their status as it relates to the men in their lives?<br />
<br />
How could we not expect this? In a world where children are taught to devalue all things feminine, beginning with the lessons to "not be a sissy" or not to "throw like a girl," what else do we expect our children to learn? As long as female = less than, we are teaching our children that their worth is determined not by who they are, but by how close they appear to align with the masculine.<br />
<br />
When I am overwhelmed by the pervasiveness of this toxic masculinity, it helps to stop and look around me. I look to the men in my life and I see that they have evaded this infection. I see my husband, my brothers, my father, my friends and I am hopeful again. The majority of men are not rapists. Now, we just need the people who believe rape is wrong to fight against the normalization of rape and devaluation of the feminine. Until we do, rape will continue. Steubenville, Torrington, West Memphis, Your Town.<br />
<br />
A study found that 37% of men admitted that they would commit rape if they thought they could get away with it. Be the person who speaks up, who lets these men know you won't let them get away with it. Stop being complicit and reinforcing their belief that rape is okay as long as you don't get caught. Speak up against dehumanizing and objectifying behavior and language.<br />
<br />
Open your damn mouth and change the world.<br />
<br />Lyzardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00590233353813007325noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6241920.post-50929393914032499542012-08-21T10:03:00.000-06:002012-08-21T10:03:28.175-06:00Clean SlateI've archived all my old posts and am starting anew. I considered starting a new blog - even got a couple set up - but always wanted to return here. Plus, Lyzardly is one of the few words that will inevitably lead back to me in Google. So instead of starting over completely, I am making a clean break from the past posts. I may at some point re-post or unarchive some of them, but not today.
Today is about looking into the future, not the past. Lyzardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00590233353813007325noreply@blogger.com0