Band of Gold

This isn't my story to tell. I have debated whether or not I should pass it on. As you can see, I have decided to put pen to paper, so to speak. This story is too beautiful to be a faint echo in a classroom.

As a high school history teacher, moving into post-WWII history always came with a family history assignment. I firmly believe that you can't appreciate where you are unless you know where you have been. While teaching in Sweden, I tasked each student to interview grandparents and parents (or someone of that generation). There were set interview questions as beginning guidelines, and I did this in the hope of making the facts in our textbooks intermingle with the flesh and blood experiences of my students and their families.

Because I taught at a private-ish school, we had a very mixed student population. Mainly native-born Swedes, but quite a few students whose families had come to Sweden as refugees. Some of them were actually native born Swedes, others had fled from the Middle East for religious or political reasons. I learned that many of the students had terrible pasts which made this assignment painful. I worked with students on an individual basis with any degree of flexibility necessary to complete the assignment.

The story I want to share with you comes from one of these students. I do not know how long he had been in Sweden, or under what circumstance his family entered. In fact, I had not known the status of his family until he told me. I had not taken it upon myself to assume a thing about his name or skin color.

He came to me in the teacher work room one day to tell me of how difficult it had been to interview his parents. His parents had never shed much light on their lives before coming to Sweden or the circumstances under which they left their homeland. He had begun to ask questions, and because it was for a school assignment it was safe to ask of such things. It wasn't a conversation to criticise or pass judgement, he was merely doing as his teacher asked.

It came to pass during the conversation that he learned of his parents journey. I do not remember from which country they came, but they were detained at the border and harassed by the guards. The guards demanded all of their money. All of their valuable possessions. They took the wedding rings from his parents. His mother begged and shrieked for the guards to show mercy to allow her to keep her wedding ring. After much pleading, the guards handed her ring back. His father was too proud to beg, and though the guards taunted him with this symbol of his marriage, he refused to bend to their will. They were finally let through. The guards kept his wedding ring.

My student had always seen that his mother wore a wedding ring and that his father did not. Internally, he blamed his father's culture, religion, whatever made sense to a boy growing up in a country so different from that of his family. The truth of the matter was that his father, in grieving the loss of his wedding ring refused to buy another one to replace it. Because nothing could replace it.

My 17 year-old student was near tears when he told me this. He had never known this side of his father, and he thanked me for the project and this opportunity to open the door into the lives of his parents to bring them closer together. What do you say to something like that? I felt so humbled.

I would like to think that he is out there, somewhere, with a stronger love and appreciation for his family. To know that sometimes questions bring closure. Sometimes questions bring healing. I hope this was the beginning of a bond that has only gotten stronger with time.

A Glimpse In the Window of Marriage

A quiet suburban neighborhood. An evening spring shower has scrubbed the air leaving a fresh and hopeful scent wafting through the three bedroom, one bath rambler. Sunday night winds down in preparation for a long week of hard-working husband bringing home the bacon to his pretty stay-at-home wife and two cherubic progeny.

As bedtime preparations commence, pretty wife takes a rare late-night shower. In an attempt to keep her slender pre-baby figure, she has spent the past hour on the treadmill. The barbecue pork sandwiches she so lovingly prepared for her beaming family are not sitting well in her stomach. She has had a hard time concentrating on her exercise, but she wants to make her husband proud and earn his respect. She has soldiered forth. One cannot enter the marital bed in such a state, so she scrubs and freshens herself up in the shower while her husband finishes his night time routine.

She towels off, all the while discussing the important events of the upcoming week: preschool potlucks, school photo pick-up, menu preparation. Freezing, cramping and farting, she hobbles over to the toilet in a desperate attempt relieve her intestinal discomfort. She looks up to find her husband standing in the doorway with a huge boner.

For better or worse, baby. That ain't no joke.

Don't Fuck With A Swede

Being acutely aware of warnings not to blog job specifics has shut off an entire subject I am just raring to bite into. Like our rental house from hell, one day I hope to look back at this time of job hell and laugh. Right now, it's just not funny.

Last night, however, I learned that Hubbie has a bit more 'tude than he lets on. Most people consider Hubbie to laid back. I vacillate between introvert/extrovert to the confusion of most around me. Hubbie, on the other hand, is the steady level-headed lagom Swede.

When talking about his day over a late dinner last night, he gave few details. When your work environment is stressful and in the toilet, there really isn't all that much to say. Until I actually listened to what he said. Something about CoworkerX helping out with PaperworkABC. I cut in:

Wait a minute...I thought EvilBossBitch said you weren't allowed to train anyone? That it was your responsibility to do PaperworkABC regardless of whether or not it is part of your job description.

He paused. Shrugged his shoulders and started to explain at which point I cut him off again:

You totally went behind EvilBossBitchs' back, said to hell with it and did it anyway! You did exactly the kind of thing that I would do!

Hubbie grinned.

I gave him a huge hug and a high five. Just because a Swede looks lagom, don't push it because they'll fuck you in the drive-thru.

Needles and Pins

For a few years, I had a very special best friend in elementary school. She was as nerdy as I was at a time when we were too young to know what that was. We loved school. We loved to read. We were smart and at that innocent stage of our lives when we didn't know or care that we were smart.

I used to ride my bike to her house, and we would lie on the floor and read. All. Day. Long. I loved it. She introduced me to some of my favorite childhood authors, and it was heavenly.

I remember that we used to call each other silly names from The Island of Blue Dolphins, and the word for dragon poo from A Wrinkle in Time (I think it was?).

Total. Nerd. Heaven.

I remember that she got the chicken pox way later than most of us. I biked to her house more than once to keep her company. My dad was furious. Absolutely ragingly pissed off. He said I could get sick again. I told him I was already immune because I'd already had it. He told me not to go. I went anyway.

I remember the day she told me she was switching schools because she was going to take gifted classes that weren't offered at our parochial school. I was so sad. We tried to stay friends, but junior high at two different schools? It just doesn't happen.

We ended up going to the same high school, but it just wasn't the same. Her friends from junior high were there, too. We were all older now. And it was just different. Not bad, just different.

I moved in high school, and that was the end of it. I have always considered her to be a very influential person in those formative years. I know I would not be the same person if not for her.

Over the years, I have tried to track her down. Via old classmates, via the internet. I have not been successful. Until today.

I am not a big Facebooker, but I am on there. In my real life incarnation.

I have searched for her there before, but the search has turned up nothing. Until today.

I sent her a message, not sure if it was her. Since sending the message, I have been able to determine that it is her.

And I feel like I am in the third grade again.

My heart is pounding. I feel nervous. What if she doesn't write me back?

I have so much I want to say to her.

Like I have never had a friend since her who was as smart. Who challenged me on so many levels. (Though I have the feeling that CMGD would, if we were able to spend more time in person together).

Like how sorry I am that I called her stublegs as a kid. That I always thought she was so cute and perfect and had the most beautiful legs, and until she yelled at me that day to stop calling her that I had no idea in my naivete that what I was saying was hurtful.

That it wasn't until I was in college and met someone else with her last name that it even occurred to me that she was Japanese. I hadn't even realized. It never even crossed my mind that we looked differently. She was my friend. I had no idea that we were different. Because we weren't.

So, I have no idea if she will write back. I just had to get this out today because there are very few people in my life that I have cared so much about that do not know it. I hope I get the chance to tell her.

Those Dirty Little Secrets

As honest, mature and responsible we would all like to believe ourselves to be as adults, it is all just a bunch of shit.

Since coming to my parents house this weekend, they will never find out:

• That in the process of making the kids a smoothie I left one of my mom's brand new spoons in the blender when I turned it on. It is pretty chewed up, so I stuffed it under all the other spoons. Hopefully, she'll blame my dad or herself for accidentally putting it through the garbage disposal.


• LittleMan slammed his sippy cup onto the table on the deck. In some mad property of physics, said smoothie rocketed out of the straw and all over my mom's laptop. Like, even into one of the drives on the side. I cleaned it up as best I could, but shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

That was just the first few days. Sometimes open and honest just isn't worth the argument.

You are MY Friend

There are many ways to get divorced nowadays, and proper etiquette is sometimes a mystery.

A conversation with a friend about the subject led her to comment on the fact they they "got" the husband in the divorce. The separation was nasty and difficult. Apparently, friends of the couple were forced to choose sides. They chose the husband, much to the woman's surprise.

It seems to me that usually the person who demands that their friend choose side ends up without the friends.

As long as Hubbie and I have been together, we are only now going through the growing pains of divorcing friends. What say you, oh readers? Have you ended up having to choose? Or have you been able to remain friends with both parties?

Whoring Myself Out, Freecycle Style

Apparently, I will do anything for a date.

A playdate that is.

Since we moved I have been using Freecycle like a madwoman. It has been a great way to get rid of things we no longer need, and we have been able to obtain several useful items in return. A total win-win situation.

Long story short, someone came to pick up something I offered. I had anticipated her coming and was interested in saying hello as she had an international/European email address. I missed her when she picked up the item. We ended up exchanging emails, and this morning she brought her son over for a playdate with LittleMan.

She was very nice, and we had a ton to talk about.

We're getting together next Friday at her place.

I have never considered myself a "networking" kind of gal, but damn. I meet people in the weirdest of places.

I like it.

My Confusion Over Adoption

Update: 5 Nov 2007

I talked with one of the teachers at LittleBird's school. I know that her daughter is adopted, and I know that she is a faith-based woman. I finally asked her if, one day, we could sit for a minute and she could tell me the story of her daughter's adoption. I need to hear good stories. As we talked and I explained my conflict over the issue, she said that she had some adoption resources that might help my friend. I would love to do anything to help ease my friend's pain. To help her find a place of peace. I know it is her journey to make, but I love her and want her to be okay. And maybe in seeing her come to some kind of peaceful resolution I might feel better, too.

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I am just so confused.

Over the past few months I have been introduced to the world of Adoptees Rights. To the corner of the blogosphere where the pain and anguish caused by adoption is eloquently published. It is heartbreaking to read. I was raised listening to my grandmother go on and on about the desire to adopt a child. About what a beautiful thing it is. And now I have seen the angry flip-side. The resentment. The hatred. The search for wholeness that may never come.

And it breaks my heart.

I feel like there is no right side to this situation. There are children who need homes, and there are organizations that broker those children as a commodity. Not always, but often enough.

This post has been a long time in coming, but today I reached a breaking point. My oldest friend and I spoke on the phone today. She had just finished with a baby shower for a friend who has adopted a little baby girl. The baby was born a week ago. I tried to ask a few questions--it seems like it is some kind of open adoption-type arrangement, but she didn't have a lot of time to talk. Which is probably for the best.

Because I felt sick to my stomach. I did not feel one shred of happiness for the adoptive family. I did not feel happy for the baby. I felt sick for the mother who signed her baby over to someone else.

I am afraid she was coerced. I am afraid that she is sitting at home dying inside because she handed her child over. She may be happy to have it done with, but I do not know that.

I think part of it is because I am only a year away from my last birth experience. And I cannot put myself in another woman's shoes. I am too emotionally close to the birth of my children not to see it through my own filter and not in an objective manner. I do not know much about the circumstances under which the birth parents gave up this baby. Save that the father is going to be "allowed" to write his daughter letters up until a certain point. Then he will be required to stop. And that my friend kept referring to the "threat" of the birth mother, and when that would be finished. This woman gave the child life. How can you call her a threat? I know the argument because I used to be there. I used to be blissfully ignorant of the other side. Now it just fills me with sadness.

My husband and I considered adoption. When we thought I could not conceive, we briefly talked about the possibility. I am just in such a fucked up head space over the whole issue now that I selfishly am happy that I never had to go down that road. Because I do not know how I could have adopted knowing what I know now. To think that my child would grow up to hate me. For thinking that I wrenched them away from their bio parents. I read all of these terrible (and very valid) things that adoptees write about and I think Holy shit! That was almost me. They could have been talking about me.

I know that not all adoptees out there feel that way. But there is so much anger and sadness on this issue that I am having a hard time finding a balance. I do not know that I will ever come to a good place about this. I know so many women with infertility issues. And I think they have the right to raise a child just as anyone else does. But how can I learn to be happy for them? How can I see the positive? Everyone's situation is different--I just need to find a healthy way to balance how I feel.

The Wedding Vows I Should Have Taken

It is only after having been married for a while that you start to realize that your wedding vows do not necessarily reflect what a marriage truly is. Forget the "for richer or for poorer". That was a given. My hubbie and I met each other in college. We were both poor as hell. Though he jokingly told people he started dating me for my car, I told him that just goes to show what poor taste he had in cars. All of the standard statements in the ceremony are nothing compared to daily life.

I realized this morning that my wedding vows should have actually stated:

For better or worse
For richer or poorer
In sickness and in health
To smell the armpits my hubbie's work shirts to see if they can go back in the closet or if they need to be laundered

This has become a bi-weekly ritual in our house. I do not know if he cannot smell his own scent, but I get asked two, if not three times per week "could you please check these shirts for me". Ahhh. The duties of a married woman.

I laughed to my hubbie when he asked me to do this. I told him I did not sign up for this when we got married. I don't remember saying this in church, I said. He laughed too, and then we both ended up saying the above-posted vows. I love my husband and his sense of humor. Even though I will have to do the smell test later on this afternoon, at least I got a kiss out of it.

I Need A Funeral For My Boobs

It used to really piss me off during my first pregnancy when people would cattily remark, "Enjoy your boobs now because they will never be the same again."

I always thought that was horribly pessimistic. Every woman's body is different. Who is to say what anyone's body will look like?

Unfortunately in my case they were right. My boobs are not what they used to be.

I had awesome breasts. A gravity-defying rack. I have never been big busted, but I loved what I had and thought that I appreciated them.

Apparently not.

The old cliché of you don't know what you've got until it's gone is a cliché for a reason.

My boobs are worn out. The term "nanny goat" comes to mind. I have either been pregnant or breastfeeding for just over three years. Thirty nine months to be exact.

I don't have much hope that they are going to recover.

I feel like I need a funeral for my boobs. The ones I lost. Kind of like when you have a bad relationship and are sad to break up. You are not in truth sad that you broke up, but you are mourning the dreams you had of where your relationship was going to go.

It is the same now. I mourn the loss of a part of my body that I will never get back. That the outer image does not reflect the inner. I am ashamed of my image in the mirror, and I am ashamed that I am ashamed.

I have gained immeasurable things in return--two beautiful children and the experience of breastfeeding them. I would not trade any of this. And yes, all the moms around me talk about the breast implants or lifts they will be getting. I will not be one of them.

I know it will take time for my wounded pride to heal. Because that is all this is--wounded pride. I do not have breast cancer. I do not have any one of the myriad things that can afflict women in my age group. In the grand scheme of thing this is a trivial complaint. But the little girl in me that finally took so long to flourish into that attractive not-quite-so-gawky woman has taken a beating. I am not ready to let her go, but it is a done deal.

I am big on rituals and rites of passage. They help us transition from one phase in our lives to another. From getting our ears pierced to getting our periods. Our first heartbreak when our mom makes us hot cocoa and let us cry for hours on her shoulder. Our first kiss. Our first tattoo. Getting that first paycheck. Making that first mortgage payment.

I feel, silly as it may sound, that I need to create some kind of ritual that will help me embrace my new body. To say farewell to my old boobs and appreciate the new ones that motherhood has given me. My husband still loves me. My daughter thinks they are perfect. I am the one who needs to see with fresh eyes. I need to find a way to celebrate the woman that I am today, and release the girl that I was.

I'll let you know what I come up with

Fertility Is A Mind-Fuck

I think for a lot of women, our timeline goes something like this:

Childhood: Boys have cooties!

The High School Years: I can't get a date to save my life! And to those who would want to date me, I still do have a shred of pride left. Thanks, but no thanks.

The College Years: I've got a boyfriend.! I'm finally having sex!! Please, dear God!! Don't let me be pregnant!!

The End of Our Twenties: Now I'm married, and I can't get pregnant! I don't know what I was worried about at 16--I can't get knocked up to save my life.

Early Thirties: Various and sundry fertility treatments.

Sound familiar?

My husband and I talked about a million different things before we got married. How many kids we wanted, how we would raise them, how we would discipline them. We talked about the types of schools we wanted them to go to. The types of education we wanted them to have.

It never occurred to either one of us that we may not be able to get pregnant. It never even crossed our minds.

When faced with fertility issues, many women feel like failures. Their bodies have failed them in some way, and it feels very, very personal.

For many, it is a spiritual crisis. Maybe God doesn't want me to have children? Maybe I would be a horrible, unfit parent and this is the universe's way of telling me not to procreate.

And for many of us, we have to have the conversation with our spouse: Do you still want to stay married to me if I cannot have children?

See, for some men, not having kids is a deal breaker. Some men do not want to adopt. They want their own kids, or no kids.

So not only do we women feel as if our bodies have rejected us, we have to face the fact that maybe our husbands no longer want us, either. That the dream of having children is greater than the newly formed marriage. That suddenly you may no longer fit that dream.

I was extremely lucky. The man I married is a phenomenal man. He has seen me through physical illness and crushing heartbreak. When he said "for better or for worse" he meant it. And it we have had times where it really has been "for worse." We wanted to build a life together, and he has been at my side on this crazy adventure that has been our marriage.

No one prepared us for this. We were totally oblivious to the complete mental mind fuck that trying to start a family turned out to be. It was hard enough to decide that we were ready for the responsibility of a family--to begin such a huge new chapter in our lives. To then be thrown into the the nefarious world of infertility. Of surgeries. Of medications. Of therapy. Of trying to believe that you are still a woman.

My heart goes out to all of you who find yourselves dealing with any type of infertility. I hope you have a support system around you to hold you up when you cannot find the strength to even breathe. When the ache in your heart and in your stomach feels so hollow that you cannot bear to lift yourself off of the floor. I hope you have someone to wipe your tears and tell you they love you no matter what your body can do. No matter what it cannot.

MIL Is a Wackjob: Mother's Day

I married a foreigner. An honest-to-god card-carrying-member foreigner. I have lived in his country, and we are back in the US for various reasons.

Mother's Day in the US was this past Sunday. I have not actually sent a card to his mother in quite sometime. Why? Several years ago, the conversation went like this:

Us: We wanted to wish you a happy Mother's Day
MIL: Huh?
Us: It is Mother's Day in the US, so we wanted to wish you a happy day
MIL: But it isn't Mother's Day here
Us: Right...but it is here in the US so we were calling to wish you a happy day
MIL: But is isn't Mother's Day here...

Okay, ungrateful hag. Nevermind.

So this year, I decided to send her a card anyway. I sent her a grandmother card from the kids. I am glad I send it before we talked to her on Sunday.

We Skyped with his parents, and when MIL sat down in front of the camera to talk, my sweet dh told her happy Mother's Day.

Her response, "Eh?"

So he repeated himself, today was Mother's Day in the US, blah blah blah. And she said, "Okay." Then changed the subject.

No happy Mother's Day wish to me or asking about our plans or anything. WTF, lady? I was so steamed by the end of the conversation I could barely see straight. I should have known this was coming. It is exactly how she always is, and it is my fault for having a Pollyanna attitude that it will be different the next time. I think she must have realized something was amiss because at the end of the conversation she told me to have a nice Mother's Day. Nice after thought, honey.

I am glad I took the high road and sent her a card anyway. I do not feel so charitable now, but it was the right thing to do.

Bring on the good karma. Or if I count my karma points, does it negate them?

How Do Stupid People Function?

Unlike many of my blog posts, this is not a rhetorical question. I really do want to know. How is it that people with zero logical brain function can manage to get out of bed and navigate in this world?

We had friends of ours that were going to meet us a local store to go furniture shopping. We gave them explicit directions. Both my dh and I are very anal and explicit about these kinds of things, so I know we did a good job. The store is off the freeway, and you literally cannot miss it. We told these friends, take the freeway until you see the gigantic store with the gigantic sign, and exit. Do not under any circumstances go into the city, we said. Stay on I-XX, do no go into the city. I-XX goes around the city to the north, stay on it until you see the store. Could it be any more simple?

Apparently not. They call. We are lost, they say. Where are you? IN THE GODDAMNED CITY.

What the fuck is wrong with you people? Even where they were located, it should have been at the longest, a 20 minute drive. TWO HOURS LATER they show up. My kids are tired and crabby, and our friends are pissed off because they got lost.

First of all, look up the directions yourself to double-check. Secondly, do not get pissed at us that you did exactly the opposite of what we told you to do. Thirdly, do not get pissed off that everyone else that you stopped and asked directions told you that you could not miss it.

We ended up having a nice time shopping together by completely ignoring the situation. It just boggles my mind that these people can be so oblivious. Never again.

The Chronicles of a Deadbeat Godfather

The Catholic Church has specific rules as to how one must choose godparents. If you don't already know them, go look it up.

I am not what real Catholics consider to be a good Catholic. I have far too much education, and I think for myself. However, I am hard-pressed to find any institution, religious or otherwise that I find to be perfect. So when the time came to have my daughter baptized, we were faced with a dilemma. Do we baptize her Catholic? Yes. I will post about that decision later. This post is dedicated to the shitty choice in a godfather I made.

I chose a longtime friend and colleague. Honestly, he was the only male Catholic I could think of. He is a lapsed Catholic even more so than myself. And he is gay (oh the horror!!). But, he has just enough sass and sense to answer my daughter any question she might have--political, historical, scriptural and otherwise. This man suffers from an overabundance of education, and I thought he would put it to good use with LittleBird.

I thought.

Fast forward nearly two years, and we have not heard a peep from him. Since I quit the job he and I worked at together, not one bloody word. So what that we moved across country? My cell number is the same, and I have had the same Hotmail address since 1999. He could have gotten in touch with us at any time.

I finally emailed him last week after months of hemming and hawing over it. It comes down to this--I may have made a poor choice in choosing him as LittleBird' godfather, but it is done. The Vatican is not going to give me a do-over (though I did wonder about the possibility). I do not know if he is going to email me back. He did not respond to the Christmas card I sent the first Christmas, and he did not acknowledge that fact that I had moved out of state when my new job called him for a reference. So, we shall see. I don't know whether this is a bet I would take or not.

My Grandmother Is Dead, and I Still Despise Her

I grew up with two grandmothers. One was everything a grandmother is touted to be. She made us malts in the bathtub, took us on walks to the candy store, played with us on the beach. You name it, we did it. She read stories to us, sang songs about our blue eyes and we always felt loved and welcomed in her home. We were her grandchildren.

My other grandmother never hugged us, except maybe when we first got to her house. She was of the idea that children should be seen and not heard. I always felt as if we were a burden when we stayed there. There were seven of us grandchildren on that side of the family, and it was obvious who her favorites were. It was very rarely us.

That grandmother died two months ago in January. She had been wheelchair bound from a stroke for nearly six years. I made my husband take off of work, and the four of us flew back to my parent's hometown for the funeral. I did not do it for my grandmother. Well out of family respect, yes. But I went for my mother. My mother had lost her mother, and she needed my support. I knew having my kids there would be a welcome distraction to my mother's grief. My husband knew that I had very mixed emotions about going, and I am grateful he was there to help me.

Because I did cry at the funeral. I cried because I hated her for what she had done to our family. For the manipulation. For the sheer pleasure she got from getting someone into trouble. For all the wonderful things people said about her that did not apply to me. They said she loved to dance, that she loved to joke, what a great cook she was, how she loved to play cards with her family and friends. I do not doubt that those thing are true for them, but I hate her for the fact that she never shared that with us.

What did she share with me? What memories did she leave me with? That her only living brother "came home" after no family contact for nearly 30 years, and she still refused to see him. Even though they were both in their 80s. Even though any fight they had had in the past was irrelevant. Her take on the matter was that he married a woman who thought she was "too good" for the family. She died, and he came back to make amends. He died last year. She never did see him.

What else? That my mom and her older brother wanted to meet their biological father because of all the serious health issues they were having. My grandmother not only pitched a holy fit over this, but when my grandfather (really my mom's stepdad, but who had raised her from two months old) died of lung cancer--SHE BLAMED MY MOTHER. She said that my mother and uncle visiting their lousy excuse for a biological father had caused my grandfather to get lung cancer. My grandfather had smoked a pipe since he was in his teens. This man was the only father my mother ever knew, and my mom loved him with all her heart. My mom's younger brother, the only "full-blood" son from the new marriage, also turned on my mother. I am left with memories of that funeral, my mother at my uncle's knees BEGGING him to look at her. How sorry she was. Not only had she lost her father, but her brother and mother.

Obviously, our families made amends after time. For me, I still live with these memories, these emotions. I have not forgotten how I felt during this time, or since then. The only thing more useless than hating the living is hating the dead. But this is the process I am currently going through.

Now that she is dead, I yell at my grandmother. I yell at her in my kitchen or in my living room. I look up and the ceiling and shake my fist and tell her how much I despise the legacy she left for my family. I see my MIL doing similar things to my children, and I am living some of these things all over again. It makes me sick to my stomach to think my children will go through these same feelings. I know I should not project my childhood onto my children's, but this is all still so raw inside of me.

Some would say that my grandmother paid for her meanness through her time, pain and humiliation in the wheelchair and nursing home. I don't care to argue that point just yet. I don't know the answer. I only know that I feel robbed of the relationship I could have had with her. If only she had been the bigger person. If only she had said she was sorry for any one of the thousands of indiscretions that I remember. If only.

VBAC--Been There, Done That

I am proud to say that I had a VBAC with my son last year. It was such an incredible experience, but that story is for another time.

The issue I want to touch on today is the lack of support I found. I found lots of pro-VBAC articles and many pro-VBAC forums to read up on. What I did not find was something to celebrate my VBAC. I searched everywhere to find a t-shirt, a bumper stick, a button--any small trinket I could wear to shout out to the world that I was a successful VBACer. Most things I found were so negative. Hideous, anti-caesarian type shirts that has such a negative vibe to them.

Well, now I have finally found it. I have just ordered this bag from CafePress. I cannot WAIT to use it as a diaper bag. And my next purchase will be this shirt. VBAC--Been There, Done That. Hell yeah!!

The Hypocrisy of a Blog

The title of this blog is obviously a misnomer. If I truly were not afraid to use my mouth I would have no need for this space. There is a difference, however, between what you want to say and what you are entitled to say. I do not believe in saying something solely for the purpose of stating my opinion regardless of the feelings of others. When a friend tells me of some ridiculous behavior her husband has exhibited, I do not say, "Wow. Your husband is an asshole." My friend has come to me for a shoulder to cry on, not for my judgment. Now if she is critical of her husband, I may feel free to chime in, but only to a point. Every relationship has its own rules, its own boundaries. What works for them may not work for me. Exactly the reason why they are married to that stupid oaf and I am not.

If I let loose with every random thought that crossed my mind, I would have even less friends than I do now. I do not believe in destroying someone's day simply for them to hear my opinion. Some thing are best left unsaid, or stated on a blog. I recognize the hypocrisy of these statements, but such is the world in which we live.