Life with a dictator

Thursday, April 9, 2015

Little dude looks sweet and cute right??




He is a dictator.

He declares what he wants and expects his wishes to be obeyed forthwith.  Heaven help whom ever does not understand what he is saying. Because he knows exactly what he is saying.

Inspector Gadget! NOW.  Paw Patrol! STAT!

There are a lot of sayings about terrible 2's but 3's are really hard.  They know what they want, they can communicate it somewhat, and they are more determined so you can't try and distract them with something really cool (well you can-- and they may even humor you- but they will be back for what they initially wanted).

Three year olds can run the house if you let them.  Sometimes that is all that keeps my sanity--- LittleDude wants Chuggers?! Fine! He gets Chuggers.. Learn picking battles is half of being a parent.  I frequently tell the bigger kids to just give him what he wants so he will stop holding the house hostage with screams.

Logically- I know that 3 years is a huge developmental time and he is beginning to see the world does not revolve around him.  He is learning that wants do not always equal needs. Which can be a hard pill for a three year old to swallow.

Horrible Nightmare

Wednesday, April 1, 2015

Last week I had to go to the doctor for my hip.  While I was there, something horrific happened.

B was badly injured training at a live fire drill.

One minute we were texting each other about my hip, he said that he had to go drill, next thing I know my phone was going crazy as he had fallen trying to force open door as part of their training. When he fell he broke his leg.

Seeing the text that he was hurt but not knowing what was happening was terrifying. Not being able to help was frustrating.

As a mother, my job is to fix things. Make things better.  There is nothing that I can do to help him. Nothing I can do to make it better.  All I could do was go there and be there.

The break was bad enough and in a place that required surgery, I have had a lot of surgery, but waiting for someone to have surgery is something I have less experience with.  Sitting there, watching the screen with his case--- waiting for screen to advance to "surgery complete".

B's job has always scared me- I love and respect what he does, but it scares me.  Because he could so quickly be injured. Nothing is a guarantee.  Every time we talk we end it with "I love you, be safe".  I will not let him off the phone until he replies "I always am".

It has been hard for the kids- he is like superman.  He comes and fixes things and saves the day. His job is actually to save people.  He is not here a lot but when he is he is fantastic with them.  No one gets a better welcome than when daddy gets here.

Truth be told, I am a little jealous about how the kids are so interested in helping him. When I get hurt or have surgery nothing changes, the requests keep coming: "mama what's for dinner??" "where is my shirt?" B gets hurt--- totally different story- they are all over him helping.  Which, honestly is good.  He is dad- and a pretty darn awesome one.

Seeing the message that B was hurt was the most horrifying thing. My stomach dropped a million miles, I started sweating, I was sick to my stomach.  He annoys the crap out of me and irritates me beyond belief, but I love him.

When the doctor told me that he did need surgery, I got light headed--- and its not my leg! A doctor can tell me I need surgery and that is fine, I can deal, but not someone I care about, that makes it scary!

I do have new respect for what B had to endure in the waiting room for me- my surgeries were much longer and I have no idea how he managed.  Being the one unconscious is much much easier.

When he is better, I will have to find something new to say other than "I love you, be safe" because much like the kids-- he clearly doesn't listen.

I am thankful that he will heal.  I am thankful for my sister who saved the day. I am thankful.

Why I don't support gay rights

Wednesday, March 18, 2015

I support human rights.

Let's start with the basics: LGBTQ people are people- people being the operative word.  People= human- so they by virtue of being human deserve the same rights and protections as any other individuals.

I live in a very conservative town.  The majority of people in this town are people who are dedicated to Christianity.  To be emphatically clear, I take no issue with that, as long as their faith is their faith and it doesn't become something they require others to abide by.  Many Christians assert that the bible says that marriage is defined as a promise between one woman and one man (we can debate what the bible says about marriage in another post).  This is what leads us to one problem:

A significant percentage of people in the country, do not believe in the bible as a source of faith or a guide for moral living, as a significant portion of people do not garner their ethics or morals from the bible asking them to follow its teachings regarding marriage makes no sense.

One of the best things about the US is that the US is not a Christian nation, we are not a Jewish nation, or a Islamic Nation. Our country was founded on the ideals of separation of church and state, where citizens are guaranteed the freedom of and from religion, therefore for laws to be written and instituted based on a religious text is in direct contradiction to our nations founding principles.

Whether or not two adults are permitted to marry in no way lessens the value and the importance of any other marriage.

Back to point-

LGBTQ people do not need special privileges or rights; they need and deserve the same rights granted to any other citizen.

Let us not forget that not terribly long ago, it was illegal for people of different races to marry now we have moved past this (mostly) hopefully we can move past this being a problem as well.

No, I don't dance for anyone

Tuesday, March 10, 2015

No one aside from my pole sisters have ever seen me pole dance. 

Pole dancing has been thought of as a sexual act for so long, and it is. Really, pole rose to prominence in the US because of exotic dancers (aka strippers).  Without them, pole would not be. Pole can also be sensual, athletic, modern, or lyrical etc- it is an art, a sport, a career- it is whatever the individual doing it wants it to be.

For me though- pole helps me get in touch with my feelings, it helps me get in touch with my (please do not laugh too hard) sexy side.

So why do I want to get in touch with my sexy side if I am not going to let someone see? I do not believe that as a woman, as a pole dancer I need to be of sexual service to men unless I want to. There is no obligation inherent in being a pole dancer (for fitness or any other purpose).

A lot of people say something along the lines of "your husband must be happy" or "I bet he loves to watch you practice".

I do not pole for anyone but myself.

When I say something along the lines of "Well no one else has seen me dance" most often I am met with a response in the vein of "Then what's the point?" Which is to say: what is the point of being and feeling sexy if someone else is not going to benefit from it?

I want to feel connected to my femininity, my sexuality, my sensual side for me. Not for the benefit of someone else.  




and just because I can-- here are UNEDITED pictures from a shoot I had.

I think my phone works better when I say please

Thursday, February 26, 2015

It is a truth universally acknowledged that electronics and I do not get along.  It should be on my resume that I can effectively break any electronics.  If I can get it to work- it is a solid item.  More often than not I end up calling B and saying something to the effect of  "the thingy will not do the thingy that I want it to do"

I can hear his eyes rolling. Deep sighs "What did you do to it?" he asks.  "Nothing" I reply.

Grumble.

Somehow he gets it to work.  Interestingly enough, I can do the same darn thing and show him I am doing the same darn thing and it does not work- 3 seconds later- he does it- and magic happens.

My phone is another issue. I have an iphone and Siri dislikes me intensely- but she does seem to work better when I use my manners and say please and thank you.



3 reasons my girls have pink hair

Wednesday, February 11, 2015

Why yes! I did notice that my 3 daughters, age 5, 6, and 10 have pink (and purple) hair. I let them. I bought the dye.... I helped them do it! Why would I do such a thing??

1- It's their hair. Seriously. Not my hair, not my choice.
2- Allowing them to express themselves and my support of it- is good for them
3- Its fun! You only live once!

(as an aside-- I would never have had the confidence to dye my hair a fun color like that as a child- I still don't-- as an adult)

I think it looks pretty awesome, and I am proud of them for finding their own individuality.

We are not exactly a family that conforms to expectations, we set our own and expectations and love it.

Utah anniversary

Monday, January 12, 2015


The night before, Thursday, I came home from Mock Trial team and spread my work out on the floor in the formal living, no one went in there so I could set to work on the mountains of projects I had to complete. My boyfriend called.  He was older than me, my parents didn’t like that. We argued. I knew something was up.  I didn’t know what.
I was sick. I was scared. I was hiding. I was running to try and find something- someone safe.  He was angry- he knew I was not telling him things. I couldn’t tell him. I was terrified.  Everything was so terrifying. Feelings were/are scary. They can’t be reasoned with they can’t be controlled.
My brother came home from work- he was staying with us while he was separated from his wife. We sat down for ‘dinner’.  Which was tense. Always tense. Eggshells. One wrong word, glance, putting a fork down too hard and it would erupt into screaming and crying- saying awful things- just to hurt the other person- hurt them as much as I was hurting. I felt so empty so scared so alone. I felt everything and nothing at once.
Back to homework. I had a final paper to revise, AP physics to prepare for. Exams were next week.
I went to bed.
Set my alarm, made sure that my riding crop was under my pillow. I was terrified of my dad. I was scared- and my flimsy riding crop was all the protection I could muster. I passed out into a dreamless sleep.
The next bit gets a little fuzzy
I woke up. I think it was my parents at my bedroom door—with 2 strangers. I was told that I was going to Utah today—like now. At 4 am.
My mind raced- how could I stop this. How could this not happen. How could I stop it? I thought of saying I was pregnant- even though I hadn’t slept with anyone- but Illinois law said that a pregnant minor was emancipated from her parents. Then again, I wasn’t 100% sure of that and my brother was a lawyer- he would have planned for that reaction.  Also, I was so thin- there is no way anyone would believe I was pregnant. My body could barely support me not another person too.
I realized at some point- that if I left- I may not like it- but I would be away. My parents could not hurt me so much every day. I wouldn’t have to see them an know I was a giant fuck up just ruining their lives maybe this could be ok. I agreed to go. But I asked about my group presentation that I had to present tomorrow… and what about finals? It would all be worked out they said.
I had a few moments to change- supervised. Go to the bathroom- supervised. I would have killed myself then. I would have just to not be so terrified.
I got dressed. Jeans, size 0- too big. A pink camisole. A black wool cardigan with pink roses.  I could take very little: I took my violin, my stuffed bear Tasha (whom later in Utah I would hold and inhale the scent of home) and my favorite book- Pride and Prejudice.  I asked to say good bye to my dog- Fred. My brother had him out for a walk. So I said good bye to my cat- Miss Meow. My parents asked to say goodbye to me, I told them to fuck off.
It was very cold. There was three feet of snow on the ground. We took off for O’hare- me and two escorts. Later I learned how good I had it.  Other girls were drugged and taken. Others were handcuffed and taken. I went on my own.
On the airplane the escorts were nice to me- this was their profession. Taking girls to treatment so they may—just may survive whatever demons live in them.  They gave me a letter my mom wrote to me. At first I was too mad.  Too angry to read it- but as we passed over the Midwest curiosity got me. I read it. And lost what little composure I had. Everything everything came spilling out overflowing in a mess of tears. I was angry and so very hurt—and scared… but being hurt and scared but you on the defense- and that was an untenable position for me- anger was safer. But there comes a time when anger can’t hold everything back. My time for that was somewhere over Nebraska.  I still have the letter.
They offered breakfast. A Danish. Orange Juice. Fat. Calories. Hell no.

When we landed I was handed off to Danielle and Matt. At first Danielle intimidated me- but later I grew to love her- she was the only one who could help me with my calculus. 
What do you do, 4 days after your 17th birthday when you are sent across the country- with no notice- to a treatment center so maybe, maybe I could survive this and come out the other side?
What do you do when for as long as you can remember you have been not good enough- convinced your parents hated you- then get sent away? Seems to confirm everything I had thought.
I felt more alone then than I had ever felt. But a sense of odd relief. I wouldn’t have to see my parents and know I was letting them down.  Hear the frustrated sighs, the disappointment.
The indignity got worse over the next few days and weeks—and I told myself that worst case scenario I would be there for 361 days- at which point I would become legally an adult.  Seriously, it got bad.
One of the worst parts was it confirmed my worst fears. That I was not good enough to be part of our family- so they simply got rid of me- remember 17 year olds – especially 17 year olds who are starving aren’t the best at critical thought.
Going to Utah sucked. It was awful. But it saved my life. I still have my old therapist’s (Alan) email and phone number in my phone- and yes- when things are really shitty- I call him and 16 years later? He still answers me. The man is a saint.
Now- I still don’t let people get close to me. I don’t do feelings well.  I prefer things that can me reasoned with and logiced  (new word, just made it up) out.  Feelings are too messy. Too much.
So today, I am a hot crying sobbing mess- and tomorrow it will be worse.
I am still friends with a lot of the girls who I got to know there- we had very different lives- but they were the first to help put me back together when I fell apart. 
 Now, so many years later- I lose it around my  'anniversary' both going and coming.  I try and keep terribly busy- to keep the tears away, to try and hold it together.  Inevitably, I fall to pieces a few time. A sobbing snotty mess. I can still smell the same smells feel the same feelings. Its like it is happening all over again.
I want to throw things, cry, have someone hold me and tell me its over, never will happen again-- and maybe pry my shoulders out of my ears- someone to be there to help stem the anxiety and fear.