Winning Friends, Influencing People.

So I'm in Sprawl-Mart the other day, and I have (foolishly) brought all three kids with me.  Little Dude is in the cart, and the Hurricane and the Princess are shoving each other and myself, fighting over who is going to push the cart.  I bark out, loudly, "You guys! STOP! I can't push the cart like this, so both of you move out of the way!" and who do I hear calling out to my son? His beloved preschool teacher.  Yeah, it was awkward.  All I could do was slap a big fake-ass smile on my face and pretend I hadn't just yelled at my kids in the middle of the store.

Later that day, after soccer had ended, I stopped at the store to get Hot Stuff some cigarettes.  Since I only had the Hurricane, he came into the store with me.  As I am standing at the till, waiting for the debit to finish, I hear a voice call out to my son!! Yes!! The Hurricane's beloved preschool teacher!! As I am buying cigarettes!! In front of my kid!! So we must chat!! And it's uncomfortable!! I feel the need to make the lame-ass excuse of, "Oh these? These aren't for me!" because that excuse is Highly Believable.

Sidenote: While we were in the Big Chain Store, my Princess decided to throw a whopper in the toy section because I wouldn't let her hang around and stare at the baby dolls all day, nor would I buy her one.  (I should probably mention that we were well past nap time before we even went in the door.) By the time we had doubled back to the laundry aisle, she had ramped up the tantrum intensity from Extreme to I'm Going Nuclear, Motherf*ckers, So Watch Out.  I gave her a choice: knock off the crap and walk nicely, or she was going in the cart.  She loudly and vehemently refused both choices, so I carried her like a football from one end of the laundry aisle to the other and stuck her in the cart.  Yes, she kicked and screamed and carried on the whole time.  I just let her go on about her business, because it takes a lot more than a bunch of noise to embarrass this mama. As I am wrangling her into the cart and trying at the same time to place her so she doesn't smash my bag of white cheddar popcorn (Mmmmm), some lady - a total stranger - says to me, "Well, looks like someone needs to spend some time at my house," in this smirky, superior tone.  Really? Really, lady? Let me guess: your children would never behave like this, because you would never allow it.  You would have spanked them and that would have smartened them right up, I'm sure.  Perhaps she has some secret child-beating technique that I am unaware of? Am I supposed wallop my kid for being tired, and that is somehow going to make her stop crying, instead of making her cry harder? Maybe I should have just given my child to this self-proclaimed Toddler Whisperer? At least I was able to give the woman the opportunity to congratulate herself on what a great job she did raising her children compared to the mothers of today.

Some people.

I am trying to find the words without saying things I shouldn't.  I want to post something light and fun but I am neither light nor fun.  It feels fake to say anything but what I feel.  Things are changing around here.  I am not sure yet if it is for better or worse.  Better, I think.  There is still much to figure out.

I have pulled away from my real life people, and my internet people, too, while I come to terms with this change.  (I tried with Five for Ten, I really did.  The last two topics, Lust and Yes, were just too impossible for me.) This is my way; to pull away and let the hurt wash over me and through me, until I realize that I am not going to die. My pain is too private and I am uncomfortable with other people, even my close people, seeing my heavy emotions.

What else can I say?

I can only talk about my feelings:

hurt
sad
doubtful
relieved
disbelieving
lighter
intimidated
hopeful.

My heart; she is heavy.

Memory

Five for Ten hosted by Momalom.com

I think I was ten or eleven.  It was a cold, rainy, snowy evening. Other than my cold red cheeks, I was warm inside my winter coat.  My mother and I were going Christmas shopping.  This was big.  This was huge; it was rare that I got my mother to myself without one of the other Klingons hanging around.

I remember my winter boots.  I remember my mom's winter boots.  I remember her winter-proof, water-proof (probably bullet-proof) Skanska Cement-gjuteriet winter coat; it was just so big.  I remember the smell of cigarette smoke. I remember the bright headlights from cars, the streetlights, and lights in the storefronts, and the way they all reflected off the wet pavement.  I remember the smell of Christmas in the air.

I remember walking across the street, feeling the wet, slushy rain on my face.  My mother, smiling at me as she took my hand in hers and tucked them both in her enormous, warm winter coat pocket.

Happiness

When you're done reading this sorry post, hit up Momalom.com; I'm pretty sure there are some actually happy people over there writing about actual happiness.

I am dragging myself kicking and screaming into this post.  I am feeling anything but happy today; it has been a rough week for me.  I will try my best not to drag you down with me as I go on about happiness.

Happiness:

spending some alone time with my not-so-tiny baby while the two older kids are having naps.

watching my littlest guy cry on the floor in desperation for just..one..more..cookie..please..oh! the angst!

letting my cutie-patootie eat way too many chocolate chip cookies.

getting wide-open mouth kisses (aka "lickers") from my baby guy, complete with complimentary slobbery cookie crumbs.

This is about as much happiness as I can wring out today.

Blogger, thy name is melodrama. 

Debbie Downer is also fitting.

Courage

(Go to momalom.com to find out what this Five for Ten business is all about. You won't be sorry.)

Seven years ago, a mother woke up in the early hours of the morning to the sound of her front door closing and, after checking on her two little girls, called the police to report a break-in.  When the police came, they took the mother's statement and dusted for fingerprints.  They got a description of the mother's wallet and purse, which the thief had taken. They called in a locksmith to change the locks and offered victim's services, which the mother declined.  As the police were getting ready to leave, asking their final Well, if there's nothing else? question, one of the mother's little girls, the seven year old, said,

"He left something in my room."

The world, the world came crashing down.

The man who had broken in through the balcony door had crept down a flight of stairs into the seven year old's room and molested her while her five year old sister lay in bed beside her. As he was leaving, a marijuana roach fell out of his pocket. When he was done, he walked out the front door, as though it were his own house.

The mother cried.

The five year old and the seven year old talked to the police the next morning. The five year old only knew there was A Bad Stranger in the room and I just pretended to sleep, Mommy.

The seven year old talked to the police, and the children's advocate, and the nurse, and the doctor, and the counselor. The seven year old told her story over and over, as many times as she was asked.  The seven year old went through intensive counseling.  The seven year old picked up her life and kept going.

How much courage does it take at the age of seven to tell your story about The Night the Bogeyman Came?

The seven year old is now fourteen.  She is a normal, annoying, funny, awkward, gorgeous fourteen year old girl.  She is an excellent student and a loyal friend.

Recently, one of the girls that she has known since kindergarten, that she used to be close with, decided to be malicious and bitchy and mean.  This friend told some other friends about the fourteen year old's molestation seven years ago.  Some boys thought it might be daring to walk up to the fourteen year old and ask her, "Were you molested?" to which the fourteen year old replied, "Yup. Now you can let it go."

Most of them did.  Two of them didn't.  Two of them decided that they ought to make the fourteen year old's school life hell.  Doing things like moving away from her when she came near.  Or saying, "Ewwww," when she passed by.  The worst, the final straw for the fourteen year old girl, was when one of these two boys said to her, "Gross. Don't sit by me. You're dirty."

The fourteen year old told her mother.

The mother, to her credit, did not go flying completely off the handle and start ripping the heads off of the friend who spilled the secret, the two boys, and all of their parents.  The mother called the school, and there was a meeting between the girl, her mother, and the Vice Principal.  The girl went back to school the next day.  The school handled it.

How much courage does it take for a fourteen year old to do the right thing and tell someone? To risk being the object of even more harassment when her friends find out she told?

When I first found out about all of this, I was mad. I wanted to kick ass and take names.  I wanted to get in someone's face and demand action. I wanted to protect the girl from these little assholes.  I wanted to tell her, all of it means nothing, high school doesn't count once you're done; this sucks and it's hard and you just walk tall and keep moving and they can't touch you.

I didn't have to tell her anything. She already knows.

Courage.

**This is a close family member, not one of my own kids. Sorry for the confusion!

Well, sure, it's funny NOW.

I take pictures because I don't really think people would believe me without evidence. 

As the Hurricane was being marched outside for running in the house and generally being a little shit walking by the fire extinguisher, he yanked on an apron (see: dust-covered lump in Exhibit A, just west of the dusty blue sippy cup) that was hanging from it: both the apron and the fire extinguisher hit the floor.  As it hit the floor, the top assembly popped off the extinguisher and the extinguisher skittered all over the floor (almost like it had contents under pressure or something!). In a matter of seconds, the interior of my house looked like a cage match involving cornstarch and super fine baby powder. Even with all the windows and doors wide open, it took about ten minutes for the dust to settle. Literally.

Since I'm all about sharing, let me pass on my new-found knowledge (thanks to Mike @ Fire Prevention): what's inside an ABC fire extinguisher is pretty much baking soda plus a couple of other chemicals to keep it from clumping up.  It's non-toxic to ingest and harmless to breathe.  It tastes like ass. And now you know.