I'm not that person any more.

I really like the way that facebook lets me have a peripheral peek into the lives of people that are no longer a part of my day-to-day existence.  With that said, it's also an avenue that brings a fair amount of outrage, indignation, and the occasional face palm to my days. 

The political season was rough.  I unfriended more than one person that habitually posted their brand of vitriol about the candidates - and this went for ALL the candidates.  ObamaCare has been rough, particularly around women's health issues.  Gun control, I'm not even sure I have the words to say how much it bugs me to see the anti-gun-control posts and pictures. 

My heart is still broken for the families in Newtown, CT and I can't make sense of people advocating that things remain "status quo" The easy access to modifications that make it possible to fire a large number of rounds in a short amount of time is not protected by the Constitution.  Armor piercing bullets are not protected by the Constitution.  These things exists for one reason, and that reason is to kill people.   I don't discount the roles that mental health care has played in the massacres of the recent years, but I also don't think it can all be pinned to the failure of our nations ability to help people with problems.

One particular face-palmy event happened on Christmas Eve.  My niece posted a picture of her 8 year old son, holding a gun, with the caption "Christmas present from Papa"

Part of the beauty of an "anonymous blog" is that I control who has knowledge of these posts, and I know that we are primarily a like minded community.  So, I can say this.

He looks like a little thug!  And what sort of an idiot gives an eight year old a gun? What the fuck are you thinking?!?!? I try to put myself in the headspace where I would think such a gift was a good idea, where I would take a picture of it, and where I would put it on the Internet.  I can't get to that place.  I'm not that person any more.

Here's an interesting back story.  I was raised a Southern Baptist, gun-totting, God-fearing Republican.  I was my great-nephews age when my dad taught me to hold a gun for the first time - we started with .22 caliber rifle.  We went hunting once, and I did not like the way it made me feel to see blood coming out of the bird I had managed to hit, so we focused on target shooting (pistol and rifle) and skeet shooting (shotgun).  Throughout high school, my Dad and I would go to the rod and gun club and shoot on a very regular basis - it was the only way we managed to relate to each other.  I applied for and received a concealed carry permit, and carried a pistol in bag TO WORK every day in my early twenties.   I knew about gun safety, I had a gun safe, I knew how to load, unload, disassemble, clean and reassemble a variety of firearms.  I honestly believed I could hold a gun in my hands and defend myself from risk to life, limb and physical property.

I am not that person any more.

While talking with my Dad on Christmas Eve, I asked him if he had bought the gun for my great-nephew.  He said no, that was my sisters (the boys grandma) boyfriends gift to him.  I asked if it was a BB gun, he said no, it's a small gauge 2 shot shotgun.

I got silent.  I had been consoling myself that it was "just a BB gun", in the time-honored tradition of Ralphie, in the movie "A Christmas Story".  With intent (or ignorance), and at short range, a BB gun can do serious damage, but, in my mind, at least it wasn't a "real gun"



"You'll shoot your eye out"

My Dad kept talking. 

"It's not like they're going to let him use it unsupervised.  That fella, Aaron, he knows how to hunt, and he's going to teach AJ.  But he won't be running around with a gun all the time."

Knowing my sister: and the chaotic shambles that best defines her life, and knowing my niece: a kid with three kids of her own, I am highly skeptical that they have any security measures in place to keep this 8 year old boy from running around with a gun all the time.  I'd put money that there is no gun safe.  I'm just hoping they have the sense to keep the gun unloaded, and to store the ammunition in a separate, inaccessible location.  But I have my doubts.

I interrupted my dad's rambling about how it was perfectly ok, normal, and right for his great grandson to be armed at the ripe old age of 8.

"Dad, I gotta tell you.  If you ever decide you want to get my son a gun of any kind - ANY KIND - you need to talk to me first.  Because the answer is going to be no."

He made an excuse.  "Well, it's not like you didn't have guns at that age.  You just teach a kid to use a gun right."

"No guns, Dad.  I'm not that person any more."

Are you mom enough?

Dear Time Magazine:

It hasn't been a great week in motherhood for me.  You see, I have a chronic and degenerative disease that impacts my life every day.  Some days, I just deal with the fact that I live in a cocoon of pain, and other days I get lost in it.  This week, I have been devoured by the pain in my own body, and that's not left a lot to give anyone else; this includes my husband, my son, my job, and my own sanity. 

Yesterday, I was scheduled for an intravenous medication infusion to treat this disease.  I fought my way up the stairs, carrying my son, while biting my lip and praying under my breath that my knees would hold out to get him to the top of the stairs without dropping him.  He's 18 months old, and is really pushing to find his own boundaries in this world.  He has no real concept of how to manage his own emotions, and has been having flares of temper and frustration that come out like tantrums.  It was just one of those mornings where he wanted to push at the limits.  While I was changing his diaper, he stuck one hand in his own mess and planted it on my chest.

I burst into tears.  I lost my temper.  I yelled at him, saying,  "JUST LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE."  I took my shirt off and threw it on the ground, cleaned up his hands, and cried through changing his diaper.   Then I put him in his crib and I walked into the bathroom, sat down on the toilet, and put my head in my hands and sobbed.  He cried from his crib, and I cried in my hands, and I said to myself "I AM A HORRIBLE MOTHER."  At that moment, I hated him for not cooperating.  And I hated myself for not being able to deal with this new phase.  I hated the pain in my body, and I hated that I have no control over it.

After I calmed down a little, I went and got him.  I hugged him and said "I love you, I'm sorry" over and over.  I got him dressed for school and let him play in his room a bit while I finished getting ready.  It was Daddy's day to take BabyBoy to school, and I walked them to the door.  BabyBoy put both hands on my cheeks and offered up his face for a kiss. 

"Baaah-Bye Mama!", he said, cheerfully.  I started crying again.  "Jesus, what is WRONG with you?", my husband asked.

"I"m a horrible mom.  I don't deserve him being so sweet to me when I lost my temper and yelled at him and, and..." words turned into sobs as I leaned my head against his shoulder.  Hubby patted me and said "I can't do anything about this right now, you're not a horrible mom, but we have to go."

I waved goodbye, and sat on the couch to cry some more.  I finally pulled myself together and got in the car, to hear a discussion about your latest cover story "Are you Mom enough?" about attachment parenting, breast feeding, and complete with an incendiary cover photo of a three year old standing on a stool, breastfeeding from a cute, young mom in skinny jeans.

Thank goodness, Alien Mom is Mom Enough.

If I had to classify myself as a mother, I would say yes, I am a believer in attachment parenting.  But here's the thing, my body, my disease did not allow me to be the kind of attachment parent I wanted to be.  I couldn't wear my son in a sling because I have 4 vertebra that are fused together from degeneration caused by arthritis in my back.  I wanted to breast feed him until he self- weaned, but I couldn't because I had to wean him at 4 months in order to go back on medication that would at least prevent further damage from occurring, even though it can't give me back mobility or pain-free movement.  Each time I've had to make a decision that's prioritized my own health and longer term prospects ABOVE the way I want to mother my son, I've gone through a period of beating myself up over it.

Basically, my first reaction is to say, "Hey, fuck you Time magazine.  Who are you to call me into question?  Who are you to put me and my decisions up against other mothers and make it some sort of competition?"

After a good nights sleep, and the beginnings of some pain relief after yesterdays treatment, I'm still pretty mad at you.  Even without extenuating circumstances (And let's face it, we all have extenuating circumstances), being a mother is really hard work. 

Instead I will say, "You know what, Time magazine?  I'm not perfect, but I'm doing the best I can.  I fuck up on a regular basis, but my little boy still kisses me and smiles and it's like Christmas morning.  I can't carry him in a sling, but I can teach him to be strong and to stand up.  I can't nourish him from my body, but I can teach him to be loving and care for others.  And I can support my sister-mothers through their own struggles."

So, in answer to your question, Yes.  I am MORE than enough, in my own way. 

Sincerely,

Not Perfect

P.S. - Fuck you, Time Magazine

"Success with Honor"

I am appaled and physically sickened as this story of Jerry Sandusky unfolds.  I just read the grand jury report and along with complete disgust, I am MAD.  At least two janitors knew. At least one assistant coach knew. The athletic director and the school vice president knew. The school president knew. Paterno knew.  And yet, they protected the precious sanctity of a winning record rather than refuse to back down in defense of these boys.

Firing Paterno is not enough.  Firing the President of the school is not enough.  It's not about FOOTBALL, but a more fitting punishment for allowing this sort of behaviour to continue for YEARS would be to suspend Penn State from Division 1 Football.  Fuck the legacy, fuck the record, there are no wins in the win column that make at least 8 young lives that were irrevocably changed an ok price to pay.

And fuck the 1700 students rioting in the streets, saying Paterno deserves to coach one last home game.  1 in 3 girls is sexually abused before the age of 18.  1 in 6 boys is sexually abused before the age of 18.  In a crowd of 1700, look around.  Statistically over 400 people in that crowd were abused in some way.  If you want to stand up for something, stand up to end the henious abuse of children, the destruction of innocence, and the lasting negative impact on their lives.  Several of the reported victims are college age now.  I wonder how those boys feel, seeing their peers rally around an individual that allowed that abuse to happen and did nothing to stop it.  What must it feel like to know that piviotal moment in their lives is deemed less valuable than allowing a man who touts the school motto ("Success with Honor") as his personal creedo who did NOTHING to save them the diginity of coaching "one last game."

The news has been covering this non-stop.  Hearing stories where Joe Paterno is lionized as a coach who cares, one who was always hounding students to keep their grades up, and hounding professors to get the straight scoop on those grades, as a man who was known for following up on things.  How can that be the same person that allowed a shower rape to be swept under the rug of the bueracratic chain?  Did winning at football really mean that much to him? How does this man look himself in the eyes in the morning when he looks in the mirror?  There is no success that warrants that lack of honor in my mind.

My heart goes out to the victims.  And my rage is firmly directed all the way up the chain.  Shame on every one of you adults who knew what was happening and did nothing to stop it.  Shame on a coach who allowed it to be swept under the rug.  Shame on the administration who continued the trend and then lied about it.  Enjoy your football record, assholes.  The legacy of Penn State will not be a win/loss record.  It will be of a vile cesspool that allowed a reprobate to target victims, then use university facilities for his atrocities.