Zombie Toddlers and Animal Habit

A toddler bit my son, twice: two separate occasions. I received only one report yesterday, as the biter was caught in action, reportedly over being accidentally bumped into by my kid. I don't necessarily buy that and I'm still livid because biological nature to see my DNA into adulthood is real, y'all. The "Is Wayne Brady Going to Have To" is strong with this one.

Jacob has what looks like bite marks on his shoulder, which if true, were likely sustained two days ago in which the biter sunk his teeth into my butterball and yoinked his cookie from him. Makes sense. When I came in that day, he was lying down looking sad on a frog pillow.

Before I sound too much of a sanctimommy, hear me out. 

I'm not under the delusion that my son will never do any wrong, much less bite to get his way. But I can tell you, I expect timeout (1 minute per 1 year of age) to be used effectively to discourage future episodes. Animals, including humans, can learn and kids are smarter than we often credit them with being.

Now to the meat: there are behaviors in my classroom I want to cease. If I fail to address them, they continue. Children of any age can be trained to not do certain undesirable things, and they must be. Biology has hard wired limit pressing and exploration into their nature. It is discovery, risk, and redirection that teach them how to navigate the world.

Better with age?

It's tough to say what my opinion on ageism is as its a topic that I had never given full consideration until the past few recent years.

With birthdays in my teens, I recall joking with friends about our "elderly" condition, and I'm sure walkers with tennis balls made their feature as we thumbed our noses at mortality. That's what the young DO. It wasn't ever meant as disrespect when we were young, although I can see how it could be construed that way. 

But now, having had more work experience with diverse coworkers in age, gender, ethnicity, and so on, I've become more aware of language and its effects. Offhanded comments equating "looking/feeling" old with something negative or an an undesirable trait are hurtful. 

First: Age does not equal health. At 31 years old, I find myself in need of respiratory medical equipment to assist my breathing at night. I don't smoke, I exercise, and I take relatively good care of myself, yet this is where I am. There are people my age and younger with worse debilitating conditions. My acquaintance Gary died at 27 from cancer. My friend David, near my age, passed away at a similar age fighting the same thing. There's nothing sacred about your 20s, 30s, 40s. Not comparatively. And honestly, not even childhood is a guaranteed span. The clock stops when it stops.

Why, when I'm feeling poorly do I say, "I feel so old?" Is it that I think my sadness or lack of vitality is how it *must* feel to be 70? 80? 90? And how could I possibly know?

Living near Houston (in, until a year plus ago), I often would see older individuals out, slamming fitness into the eyeballs of all who passed their way. Not intentionally, not for attention, so perhaps I should rephrase the above sentiment, but I recall thinking, "Good for you, dude/dudette!"

 Why? Is walking/running only for a select group of humans? Do we stop having hobbies once we turn 60 plus? Do we hermit ourselves away and knit, swear at kids on our lawn, and stare wistfully out of windows until the we shuffle off the earth to make room for toddlers disguised as 30 year olds who complain about how good our generation has it and how selfish we were to use up all of their resources?

I don't know. Maybe it's wise to shut up a lot more than I do.

Maybe when I'm feeling bad in the future, I'll bless someone instead.

Not a sports page, not a magazine

A book I loved: total cop out on adulthood here, but cripes alive, I adore Charlotte's Web. The beauty of self-sacrifice after pouring your love into and preserving another being? Nothing compares 🐖🕸

A book I loathed: Bastard Out of Carolina horrified me, and even more so after colleagues met Dorothy Alison and she stated she harbored no ill will against her mother for being raped as a toddler by her mother's sicko pedo boyfriend who also passed on syphilis and permanent facial paralysis to Alison. I get that she likely had her whole life to make peace with that garbage, but what is it if not a warning? Rape often happens via acquaintances. Home is supposed to be a safe harbor. Her mother failed her on multiple counts and walked out on her. Disgusting.

My Ink

Current ink features a silhouetted cross on my left foot (2004), reminiscent of my days at Glorieta, New Mexico when I had no clue who I was, but my friend Michelle Tho lifted me out of some serious darkness.

I also have this tree of life (2009) on my right shoulder blade/back because the mytheme transcends one culture and is philosophically fantastic to chew on.

Fascinators can be people, too

Truthfully, I sat, trying to determine which famous person I wanted to write about.

Writers catch my attention, especially their quirks: Flannery O' Connor and her pea hen farm, William Butler Yeats and his occultism, Adele naming her hairpieces.

But I realized, fame has little to do with my interest in people; it's the strange/whimsical/freeness that attracts my interest.

I had a roommate who had a whole living room floor dance routine to Gogol Bordello's "Start Wearing Purple," and I'd be lying if I said the thought of it doesn't cheer me up instantly.

My friend Sara does an incredible Aaron Neville impression.

I met George H.W. Bush at our high school's dedication ceremony, and he did an impression of Dana Carvey's SNL impression of him. Bushception.

Several people I know in various professional fields (automotive, healthcare, law enforcement) write erotica. I've never READ their writing, mind you, but I know theoretically, it exists.

So, I delight in the unusual. The twists keep life interesting. And why not? It's too short for anything else.

A Place I Would Live But Have Never Visited

Easy, Hogwarts. I don't even care about the danger. I'm a grown ass woman.

Ten Facts

A) About me

B) You can decide if they're interesting or not.

C.) After a night of poor sleep and seeing a friend's online post that sounds PPD related, I know what direction this post was meant to take.

In honor of Mother's Day, which was yesterday, my top ten list is dedicated to facts about me as a mom and other moms who have made a difference for me.

10. I gave birth 2 and a half weeks early to a nearly 9 pound baby due to preeclampsia concerns. I was mad about my c-section initially until I read an account of a woman who died from preeclampsia from the forced guilt of her church that threatened her if she sought anything other than carrying to term. With fresh perspective, I count my lucky stars to be alive and have a healthy child.

9. I had post partum depression. It wasn't my fault. It wasn't my baby's fault. There is little to prepare you for how life changing an infant is. It can strike even if you have older children. PPD doesn't discriminate. Yes, I advocate for seeking help. No, that does not make you weak. It makes you a responsible mother who realizes you cannot pour from an empty cup.

8. I miss my Grandmother every day. She and I did not get along famously due to personality conflicts, but I loved the heck out of that lady. Doris had a good heart and was nobody's fool. I've been told I look most like her out of all the cousins. I wish I could see it because she was stunning! 

8. Speaking of the cousins, I admire and respect my cousins Kelly and Katie for the mothers they are. They are raising phenomenal people, and even if they don't always see it or feel it, they are tops in my book. This motherhood gig isn't easy, but they do it with grace.

7. I was appalled in my twenties when people accused me of not liking kids simply because I didn't have any. Talk about social bullying! Yikes, stripes, y'all.

6. I believe in birth control. I do not believe my beliefs are for everyone nor that one size fits all. I believe in protected rights of reproductive freedom and that everyone's story is different and to be respected.

5. I was angry about taking a birthing workshop 6-7 hours spread out over two days only to end up with a c-section. I don't like feeling that I've wasted time, money, or resources. I'm still frustrated by this.

4. Someone once called the seconds after your baby has been born "the longest seconds ever" because you don't know if everything is alright with the kid. This is true. I remember feeling a great deal of pressure, a push, a removal, and then silence. I was in agony, even though it was seconds, it felt like an eternity. The doctor held my son up much like the Simba/Rafiki moment. I still wasn't 100% sure he was okay because he looked like a red, white, and blue potato. Obviously, he got better and we decided to claim him as our own at checkout.

3. Jennifer Hester saved my life. I was feeling tons of despair come Thursday of being in the hospital for a week and from medical concerns with me, and she visited me and brought me Gatorade. Her kindness and love lifted me out of my funk, and I am forever grateful for her.

2. I love my stepmom more than I think she knows. I can't even pretend to understand the pain she carries with her over losing my sister Veronica in 2014. It breaks me up, like a nightmare that you can't wake up from, an unsettling ache in the pit of your stomach. Chere is a treasure and I want her to always feel valued. She has an enormous heart full of love and experience that I admire. Jacob adores his Mimi, too.

1. Momma and I butt heads a lot. I think we both ultimately think along similar and often same lines, but we are both Type A personalities who see to things in different ways. I am amazed that at 5'3" this woman has the tenacity of a tiger. She has had her share of loss, having to say goodbye to the love of her life in 2012 to the tune of few people supporting her during her grief and struggle. I felt limp, unsure how to best lift her up. I am certain I failed as her daughter then. We talk almost daily. I share puns with her. We sound almost identical on the phone, so I'm told.

Love and kisses

Because nostalgia lane undergoes pruning every now and then and certain stories aren't appropriate nor worth dredging up, I am going to discuss the first time I saw a kiss and understood it, and my first nonhuman but verymuchsostill love.

One of the first movies I remember seeing in theaters (yeah, THAT used to be a huge deal) was Walt Disney's Beauty and the Beast. You know the tired line about Belle wanting the prince, but I fell in love with the library? That line definitely applies.

But I remember the quick, angular face on angular face joining and knew it was a "kiss"--a weird smooch borne of Stockholm Syndrome and strange delirium wherein all the appliances come to life and convinced Belle that bestiality wasn't so bad. So yeah, a plastic peck. 

The point is, I was glad as a small child to see Belle get her happy ending prince yadda yadda, but even more thrilled to know she would have access to that amazing library as long as she wished.

A library of that magnitude requires dedication, determination, time, tending. And as much as the bibliophile in me wants to believe that all of those items of the shelves were indeed books and not metaphors for people, I think I'm okay with an alternate reading of the library as living, breathing beings. 

Our relationships require tending and time, and what I know of books is doubly true of people. And so, that is love.

My Earliest Memory

When I was 2.5/three, my mother moved North to Missouri after separating from my father.

The town in which she lived--Rich Hill, MO--was, and still is if memory serves, quaint. Everything was within reasonable walking distance from every point of interest.

I remember a tiny yellow house with wood floors and playing by the front window on my wooden rocking horse, and having polite conversation and tea with my eyelash and maid's frock-bedecked bear. This was my calm, with my mother. 

I remember getting bundled up in that front room (much like Ralph's little brother in A Christmas Story), then hopping from footprint to footprint as I followed behind mom to...wherever.

The worst betrayal was being taken to VBS; at Vacation Bible School lived the tattlers with weak imaginations. The followers who were always ugly to me. And who wants friends like that? I would bide my time until mom would pick me up, and then beg her to not make me return.

I guess from a young age I had social anxiety and was happy to stay in my own head.

Funny, that.

Day One point five: Alternately, Five Excellent Aspects of Social Media

5. Sharing in photos of friends' happiness: cute babies, stellar workouts, cool vacations, beautiful scenery, decadent foodstuffs, precious pets, romance, smiles, triumphs, milestones...

4. Immediate access to resources and support in times of emergency, tragedy, and natural disasters

3. Learning new information via Group pages based on personal interest and likes (for me: Working Moms that breastfeed, Nerdist, Vaccination care for all countries, opportunities to donate/give to churches and those in need, IFL Science, Hogwarts Running Club)

2. Inspiration on hard days via my yogi friends, my hilariously inappropriate friends, and my stronger than they know friends

1. Firsthand accounts from individuals I have never met about news I might otherwise never hear

Day 1: Five Problems with Social Media

5. Social media (Namely, Facebook is the worst offender) is not a place for meaningful dialogue or growth. People want echo chambers for their own opinions, which typically amount to mere sound bytes of thought. Included in this complaint is that individuals on social media arrogantly  demand the same level of respect for ill-founded opinions/beliefs as established facts. It's bananas.

4. Minions memes. 

3. Pictures of Jesus and the American flag TOGETHER. Just, no.

2. Mob mentality drives news coverage.

1. People's failure to grasp the concept of satire makes me facepalm on levels I didn't know existed.