The Feminist Breeder

Do You See What I See?

I generally sit around thinking my life sucks.  I mean, yeah, I have these kids that I love.  And yeah, I’m certainly doing better now than I was when I couldn’t eat and had no roof over my head.  I have a place to live, running water, and heat, which is much more than I had most of my childhood so that’s definitely a step up.  And sure, things aren't as bad for me as they are for some other people.  Thinking about that doesn't help though.  I am nowhere near where I want to be – and I have always filed "Not what I want” in the same box as “Bad.” 

So it always shocks the shit out of me when other people talk about how great they think my life is.  All I ever think about is what I don’t have.  It consumes me.  The Void is what keeps me sick with stress, and motivates me keep reaching higher/farther/deeper.   I don’t have a perfect marriage.  I don’t have perfect children.  I don’t have the house that I want, or the career that I want, or the hair that I want, etc. etc. etc.  (I could keep adding to this list all day, but surely you get my point.)

Yet in the last week – three different friends have made comments to me, apropos nothing, about my life being “amazing.”  Huh?!

These aren’t cyber friends either.  These are people who’ve either witnessed babies come out of me, or who drank MadDog 20/20 with me before either of us was old enough to drive.  I may not talk to them often, but suffice to say they know me.  So hearing this come from them really got my attention.  My life is amazing?  You can’t be serious!  Have you not been paying attention?  Remember:

• I have no degree
• I am the embodiment of stress
• I feel like everybody hates me
• I doubt my mothering skills every second of the day
• I’m wondering why I ever agreed to be married to anybody (and he’s a fine husband, so that leaves me feeling endlessly guilty because I know some other low-maintenance woman would be lucky to have him, only he doesn’t want some other low-maintenance woman, he wants me, which means I’ve effectively brainwashed a totally innocent man into tying his life to mine.)
• I don’t own a home
• I’m not cool anymore
• Maybe I never was?
• I cry all the time – for no good reason – without provocation
• No matter what I tell anybody else, I do not really believe I’ll ever finish my law degree – because seriously?  No Crosley ever finished High School, let alone got a freaking Juris Doctor so who the hell am I kidding here?  That kind of thing does NOT happen to Crosleys.
• But I still try because I cannot accept defeat. 
• And yet I still feel defeated every day.

Sometimes I truly feel that I’m trying to save the Titanic by scooping out one cup of water at a time.

So how can someone else, someone whose life I admire and whose life I wish I lived, look at me and tell me that my life looks so great?  How can they think I have an amazing life?  In a conversation with one friend, I told her how everything was just too hard and she said “You can handle it, you’re the strongest person I know.”  What?  Me? I’m the weakest person I know!  She for the record, is the strongest person I know.  As far as I can tell, everyone everywhere is doing a better job than me, including her. 

So what is wrong with me?  Why can’t I appreciate the fact that I do have a husband who puts up with me, and two healthy kids, and a roof over our head?  Why can’t I just enjoy the fact that I’m in school, even if it will take me another 5 years to be where I want?  Why can’t I be okay with where I am in life, instead of always thinking about where I’m not?  Am I a habitual pessimist?  Maybe I’m just a brat. 

Or maybe my life does suck as much as I assume, but I’ve somehow managed to fool the people around me with some superficial appearance of happiness?

I get this way about my grades too. Yes, I have a perfect 4.0 GPA.  But even that is not good enough for me.  It’s a rouse.  I feel like I must have tricked them into giving it to me because I am a Crosley after all, and we’re generally good-for-nothing.  How could one of us possibly be on the Dean’s List?  I think that if I have a 4.0, they must not be that hard to get.  Maybe I go to the one private university in the country that gives A’s to every single student?  I don’t know.  On the one hand I’m proud of it, but on the other hand even the pride I feel from looking at my perfect grades won’t fill The Void.

Oh... The Void.  The ever present monkey on my back.  The hunger that won’t be satiated.  The hole that won’t be filled.

All I know is that I’m tired of feeling sad and defeated all the time. I wish I could live this “amazing” life that other people think I live.  Maybe I really should go back on Zoloft, but being medicated is just one more way of being defeated.

Will anything ever be enough?

Blah.

Why Don’t Men Have a Choice? (Part 2 of 2)

Some time back I enjoyed a thought provoking post by a blogger I admire.  I don’t want to make her uncomfortable by naming her outright, because in this post I am going to (gently, if I can) disagree with what she said (scratch that, she's given me permission to name her, so if you want to see who it is, make with the clicky-click on that link).  I’m glad she posted what she did, because it was not something I had ever thought too much about before reading her position on it.

In her post (and I’m paraphrasing here) this blogger expressed her annoyance with people who had always asked what she wanted to “be” when she grew up.  She claimed she had always wanted to be a mother.  End of story.  Simply put, she never wanted a career, unless that career was being a Mom.  And she felt that anyone who thought that she needed a life plan outside of motherhood was being critical and disrespectful.  After all, feminism is about the choice to be a mother or not, right?

I certainly think it’s just fine if a family agrees that one partner should stay home with the children.  Sounds totally fair to me.  Marriage is a partnership, and families need to figure out what works best for them.

But what I find problematic about her position is this: How can you decide you’re going to be a mother when you grow up – and not a wage earner – before you find the person who’s going to give you babies and support you?  Do you know of a single man who got to decide this for himself as a child?  With women, it’s expected that they should have this choice. With men, it’s expected that they won’t.

Picture this:  Teacher asks a little boy what he wants to be when he grows up.

Little boy says:  "A Stay at Home Dad."

Teacher says:  "Okay, you want to be a husband and a father – great, admirable even – but what do you want to do, like, for money?"

Little boy says:  "Nothing.  I only want to be a house-husband."

Teacher: "Okay son, but you really need a backup plan."

Why does he need a backup plan?  Well, not to be insensitive, but his plans in life rely on a whole lot of things that are entirely out of his control lining up perfectly for him.  What if he doesn’t find a wife?  What if they can’t have children?  What if the person he falls deeply in love with either cannot support him, or she had decided at age 9 that she wanted to be the one to stay home?  Who gets to stay home?  Or what if his perfect wife loses her ability to work?   What then?   And let’s say all these things work out perfectly for the little boy.  What does he do in the meantime?  You know, that time between age 18 and whenever you meet your spouse?  Surely he needs to make some cash while he’s waiting for Mrs. Right (and their offspring) to come along?  Right?

But come on.  Boys don’t get this choice.  Okay, in some progressive relationships they do (like how mine started out) but this is not a societal norm.  The fact is, when kids come along, and one person can afford to stay home, it’s usually assumed by everyone on the block that it will be the mom.  People say “It’s her choice – that’s what feminism is all about.”  But where was Daddy’s choice in the matter?  Nobody ever mentions that Daddy should have gotten the option as well.

But why?  Some would argue that mom is better at it, and I would say that is just not true in our house.  My husband is just as good of a parent as I am.  In some ways, he’s better.  He’s more patient, and less jumpy.   He doesn’t handle the minutiae the way my Type-A, over-achieving, aggressive personality does, but he’s also a lot more temperate and rational than I am.  Who says the kids would be worse off with him (or any dad) at home?

I find the whole argument that “feminism is about choice” problematic in and of itself.  That’s all I’m saying.  I can’t quite figure out the solution to what I see as an unbalance, I just want to acknowledge that it’s there, and it’s strange to me.

These two posts aren’t meant to be any sort of hard line political statement on the issue (though I’m quite certain some people will read something into them and send me hate mail anyway.)  They are merely meant to be a written catharsis about my guilt over quitting my job and subsequently putting all of the burden on my husband to pay the bills.  Maybe if he made more money, and my joblessness was barely noticeable to our finances, I might not feel so bad.  But when everyone talks about how feminism gave me the right to stay home with my kids, the equalist part of me just wants to know what sort of movement will give Dads the right to do the same thing? 

I started to write a long list of things I think our society could do to “even” out the parenting roles, but I’m more interested in what you all have to say about this.  Tell me – can you imagine a world where it was okay, expected even, for a boy to grow up with only the dream of becoming a Stay-at-Home-Dad?  What do you make of that world?

(Before you comment, I will say that we can probably have a truly intellectual little conversation about this providing that nobody decides to take this as some attack on their Stay-at-Home-Mommyness.  It's okay to be comfortable with your choice, but to also question the meat and potatoes of that choice at the same time.  That's what I'm doing, and I hope you'll join me.)

Mothers are like Vampires...

No...really.  Think about it.

Mothers are nocturnal.

Mothers can sense when their loved ones are in danger, even if they're not in the same room.

Mothers can move faster than the speed of sound to snatch a falling child out of mid-air just seconds before they hit the ground.

Just like Vampires.

And today, I decided there's a new trait.  After trying, and failing miserably, to refresh my appearance, I've decided it's not even possible.  In the same way that vampires cannot change their hair, neither can I.

I went in to the stylist today and asked for my punk rock hair back.  I used to be cute.  Before people came out of my vagina, I looked like a rocker.  I looked on the outside what I felt like on the inside.  You could tell by being in the same room with me what I was about.  You could tell by looking at me that I played in a band and lived an exciting life.

But not anymore. No matter who I get to cut my hair, I cannot look like anything but a mother.  It's impossible.  Look at that haircut.  Could I LOOK anymore like a soccer mom?  I asked her for Punk Rock/Joan Jett in 1978 ---- DOES THAT LOOK ANYTHING LIKE JOAN JETT IN 1978?!?!!?!?!?  I would insert many, many expletives here, but I know some Christians read my blog so I'll spare y'all the blasphemy.

Apparently I will have the "Mom Bob" for the rest of my natural life now.  It's inevitable.  People will never again look at me and think "oh, I bet she plays guitar" or "oh look, it's that girl who played in those cool bands!"  Nope.  They will look at me and think "I wonder how many kids she has" or "yeah, she clearly never did anything even remotely cool in her entire life."

And with that, I will leave you with this video. It is hilariously, painfully true.  There is no avoiding it. Time to mix up some oxycotin and Jack Daniels, then drink away the pain of assimilation.  I'm a mom, and there ain't nuthin' cool about it.

The Last Day

Today is the last day at my corporate gig.  I've been here since my now-3-year-old son was in utero.  I've worked here longer than I've ever worked anywhere. 

This is strange. I'm not running out of here kicking my heels like I thought I would be.  Instead, I'm digging my heals in and hoping this is one of the slower days of my life.  It will be too unsettling to wake up tomorrow morning and have no workplace to report to.

Everyone wants me to be happy. This is what I wanted.  But it's all too weird for me to be "happy" just yet.

I keep telling myself that I'm worried about the money, but with my surprise 401k liquidation, and the many thousands I just received in new financial aid, truthfully we could float for 6 full months without panicking.  And I'll only get more next semester, and I do have cake money coming in -- so we're really not that bad off.  Ultimately I don't think the lack of money is what's really freaking me out.

I think I may have to face the fact that perhaps I like coming to work.  Maybe I even like coming here.  I don't like it enough to change my mind and undo all of this, but I do want to recognize that this isn't going to be the easiest transition for me.  This place - this job - is part of my identity.

I've worked in an office for 13 years. And now, all the sudden, I won't be anymore.  At least not for awhile.  And don't ask me "So, what will you do with yourself?" because there is PLENTY to do (like taking care of kids, running my cake business, and keeping up my 4.0 GPA with an 18-hr class load.)

I won't be bored, that's for sure.  I'm just not totally mentally prepared for my life to change this drastically.  But I guess I better get prepared, because it's already Noon, and the second half of the day will probably go by quicker than the first.

And in a very, very strange twist of events, my boss from an old company wandered into the office today.  I haven't seen him in 5 years.  I say "what in the world are YOU doing here?" - and he replies that he's the new manager.  I would have been working directly with him again.  I always liked him too.  What a weird-o coincidence.

Now I'm off to my "farewell" lunch with my soon-to-be-Ex boss.

*deep breath*

Now This is a Choice I will Own

I got all bent out of shape some time back when my favorite uncensored mommy blogger suggested that people should suck it up and “own” whatever situation they are in.  Easy to say when you’re half-white, decidedly middle-class, and don’t have to leave your kids in someone else’s care 50 hours a week while you shuffle off to a job you absolutely despise, cursing the whole way, and plotting the ways in which you will make your husband pay for doing this to you.

But, I get her point.  She wants people to be happy.  And it's not her fault. She just happened to post that at a time where I was especially miserable with my circumstances, and wasn't gonna listen to anybody tell me I needed to "own" any part of it. I was in no mood.  I don’t agree that people need to shut the fuck up when they aren’t not happy, and I don’t believe that being happy is as simple as some middle class whilte folks make it sound.  But hey, I really do want to own my choice – so long as I actually have a choice.  I could bore you all with a philosophical theory on the origin of ownership and how it is not possible to own that which you have not purposely either cultivated or bartered for, but c’mon, you guys don’t come here for a dissertation on Locke, so let’s just do this the navel-gazing TFB way instead...

I think people are essentially responsible for themselves.  Sure I do.  I was raised in a conservative household.  You know, the kind of people that grow up poor as hell, but still vote Republican because they think that other people want to take away all the money they don’t have.  Yeah, those maddening people.  The Joe 6-Pack people.  But for all their mislead political alignment, I am bred with a “pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps” mentality, and that is essentially a pretty positive, Protestant, hard-working approach to life.  Thus, I work my tail off, and I take responsibility for the things I am responsible for.

But add marriage, kids, and global economic crises to the picture, and I think the waters become a bit muddied.  People are not islands, and sometimes the choices of others contradict what you may have chosen for yourself.  It’s not always as easy as walking away from their choice, especially when you are contractually or genetically bound to these people and responsible for their well-being.

So, for a very long time, I suffered through doing what I had to do instead of what I wanted to do.  I focused on work and fit school in where I could, instead of focusing on school and finishing my law degree.  I ached for leaving my kids, but I slaved over a breastpump all the hours of the days so I could do right by them even when I couldn’t be physically present. 

But now, I get to make a choice.  It is not an easy choice; that is certain.  It’s not like a Coke bottle filled with gold coins fell out of the sky and landed in my bank account so I could just walk out of my job without a single backward glance.  There is a lot of uncertainty, and a lot of second-guessing myself.  But, there came a point in life where my corporate employment was no longer worth the opportunity cost of the other things I was sacrificing in my life.  It’s very hard to come from poverty and not place an intense amount of value on money and stability. However, I am trying to focus on all the good this change will bring, and not feel suffocated by the $1500 deficit we’ll be facing each month: a deficit that I will have to find a way to make up with cake orders and school loans (and the money I’m pulling out of my 401k, and the loans we’ve already taken from the mother-in-law to help us get out of that condo debt, etc. etc.)
 
Even though we will not be comfortable financially, and I have no idea whether I’m cut out for being a work-at-home-mother , this is still easier than what I was doing.  This choice I made.  This choice I labored over and worked for.  This choice wasn’t made by someone else without my permission.  This one is mine.  And I will be happy to own it.

Look out world... here I come.

On Surviving Sexual Assault...

When I was 20 years old, I suffered an attack.   It was not the typical scenario one normally thinks of when they envision rape.  It was not the kind of sexual attack that happens in dark allies at the hands of a hooded, knife-wielding assailant.  No, my attack occurred over lunch time, in a brightly lit stair well, at the hands of my well-dressed Supervisor whose only weapon was his size - and his authority over my employment.

Until now, less than 10 people are aware such an incident occurred in my life: those people being the attacker, those who filed the paperwork regarding the incident, and later, my husband.

So the story goes: I’m working as a temp for a prominent employment agency who assigns me for some admin assistant duties in the catering department at a large hotel chain.  The position has potential to become permanent, so I work hard and take on various special projects in an effort to prove to the managers that I’m worth keeping around.  I’m friendly with all the catering managers, and eager to make coffee, or send faxes; whatever they need me to do.  I have no education at the time, but I make up for my lack of credentials by picking things up quickly and going the extra mile.  They think I'm whip-smart.  This makes me feel special.

When one of the catering managers begins assigning me more tasks, and praising my work, I think I'm starting to see some success.  When he asks to take me to lunch a week later to discuss my future with the company, I assume this is the lunch where they offer me a permanent position with the hotel.  It does not occur to me that this lunch is anything other than strictly professional:  firstly because he has a fiancé and talks incessantly about his wedding planning, and secondly, I suppose, because I am 20 and incredibly gullible.  I have no reason not to trust him.

At lunch, he talks about several projects he wants to put me on to see what I can handle.  Then he tells me he wants to take me on a tour of the catering facilities so I can get a sense for where I’ll be working.  Once we are back at the hotel, he takes me to the floor with all the special banquet rooms.  When he discovers maintenance men working in the hallway, he says we should take the stair well to get to the next floor and avoid getting in their way.

What comes next makes me feel stupid.  I don’t see it coming, and for that I feel responsible.

 He opens the door to the stairwell, yanks me inside, shoves me down onto the stairs, and climbs on top of me.  There is a tongue in my throat, and hands ripping at my clothes.

For a moment, I am stunned.  I probably don’t even fight back right away because I can’t get my head around what’s happening.  I am 5’6”, 120 lbs.  He is 6’ 4”, 220.  It takes me roughly 30-35 seconds to push him off me.  Maybe less.  I don’t know really.  Time stands still.

I run back to the catering department, and head straight into the vice-president's office where I say I’m not feeling well and ask to go home.  He tells me there’s no more work left for me, so I don’t need to come back anymore unless the agency calls me again. Fine. Great.  I never have to see Him again.

I call my roommate from the lobby for a ride home, take a shower, and crawl into bed for a day or two.  I don’t tell anyone, or plan to tell anyone, for 7 days – that’s when the temp agency calls.

The temp agency tells me they have more work for me at the hotel.  I tell them I don’t want to go back to the hotel, but I’ll take anything else they have.  I can hear in the recruiter’s voice that they don’t appreciate me turning down the job, and this isn’t reflecting on me very well.  The recruiter ends the call, and I am afraid they won’t give me on any more assignments.

Fearing my job, I call the recruiter back and tell them I need to come in the office to explain why I cannot go back to the hotel.  I am sick the whole train ride down to the agency.  When I arrive, I first explain the situation to one head recruiter, who puts me in a conference room with two other recruiters and has me retell the story while they tape record the conversation.  All three of us cry, then sit in silence.

The agency feels terrible for putting me in the situation.  I just want to forget about it as quickly as possible.  Over the next few days, they notify the hotel, lots and lots of paperwork is filled out, and ultimately He is escorted off the hotel property by security guards (so I am told later by a Temp friend who is still working at the hotel.)

Within 14 days, the agency has a permanent position for me with a salary higher than any I have seen up until that time.  They are being especially nice. I want to move on with my life, so I take the position and put the incident out of my mind.  In retrospect, I am sure they are desperate to avoid a lawsuit.

Before this incident occurred, I could never understand why a woman wouldn’t report a rape or an attack.  I would see characters on TV shows or in movies refusing treatment and refusing to file police reports after an assault, and I’d yell at the TV “What is wrong with you??? Tell the police!!!”

But, when it happened to me, I initially told no one.  And now I understand WHY a woman would do that.  Being violated is a humiliating feeling.  And telling the tale is just as humiliating.  Women blame themselves.  And society blames women.  Even when we know we didn’t invite it, and we know this was not our fault, we think no one will believe us, or they won’t do anything about it anyway.  We don’t want to keep reliving it through a never-ending legal battle.  We don’t want our lives put under a microscope by jaded detectives, or by lawyers trying to make a case for their client.  We've all seen "The Accused" and we don't want to be Jodie Foster.  It seems so much easier to try to put it out of our mind and pretend it never happened.

But it did happen.  And it keeps happening in my head.  Not all the time, but enough.  And maybe I would feel better if I had filed the police report against him 11 years ago.  An attacker is an attacker, and you are not their last victim.  If I were ever to find out that He did this to another subordinate, I would feel responsible for that too.

That is why I filed a police report against my stalker.  That is why I’m putting on my brave face and handing over the emails and IP addresses and screenshots to the detectives.  That is why I am in contact with Integra and Comcast about this person’s account.  That is why I’ve told my HR department about this person posing as a co-worker of mine - and why the authorities have traced their IP address to Oregon even though my office is in Chicago.  That is why I will not plug my ears and pretend this will all go away.

This is not easy, and it is not convenient, and it will drag this ordeal out. But I refuse to be a victim. Again.

Blogging for the Sake of Blogging

I try not to blog unless I really have something to talk about.  For a very long time, all it took was an article on cesareans or breastfeeding to get me in the mood to write.  These days, while those things are still hugely important to me, I seriously have bigger fish to fry, and I’m kind of tired of complaining about my current life situation here (there, and everywhere.)  So, I haven’t been writing much of anything.  I was hoping something awesomely fun would come along and I’d have something really positive to share, but I’m kinda coming up empty handed at the moment.

I also think that Twitter has impaired my ability to write more than 140 characters at a time.  Or maybe I figure that anything that needs to be said has already been said on Twitter, so why rehash it in a blog?

Either way, at the risk of sounding like a broken record, I have to talk about my life for a little while.  I pay $9 a month for this blog to be my arena for catharsis, so I oughtta use it.

I’ve been feeling especially stressed out lately.  Actually, I’m feeling kind of strung out.  I vibrate with anxiety all day long.  I don’t sleep.  Concentration is almost impossible.  The slightest lip out of another adult makes me want to punch them in the esophagus.   Of course, as usual, the only thing in the world that makes me really happy are my children.  No matter how shitty I feel, just one glimpse of them lights up my heart.  I’d rather hear them screaming at each other than sit in my quiet office under the weight of unfinished projects.  And when I’m working at home on my cakes, I’m so much happier than I am sitting in an office, because at least at home, I can peak in on my little ones anytime I want to.

During the day, I self-medicate with espresso.  Somehow a $4 coffee I can’t afford takes the edge off ever so slightly.  It seems strange that a stimulant would do that, but I suppose it has the same effect smoking does – makes you feel a little better momentarily while simultaneously raising your blood pressure.  I guess that’s why I used to love smoking so much.  It was my “chill-out” tool.  I detest smoking now, so these days I just drink twice the coffee.

We’re going to the Riviera Maya in 3.5 weeks, and I have never needed a vacation so badly in my life.  I fantasize every day about the 7 days in paradise that will (hopefully) help me forget about my life-at-a-crossroads situation temporarily.  John and I have both been working two jobs to help pay for this trip, and it's well deserved. 

I know that life won’t always be like this, but sometimes when you’re in the thick of things, it all seems so heavy and hopeless.  There are just too many more years of school/work left before I get where I want to be, and I’ve never, ever been the kind of person that can just be content with where I’m at.  That’s not how I’m wired.  If I was content, then I’d never bother to do the extremely hard work it takes to change my destiny from the Poor-White-Trailer-trash I grew up, to the Make-a-Difference-in-the-World attorney I long to become.  I can’t be content when there’s more work to be done.  I was born into poverty, but I will not die in it.  I will not.  So I press on, reaching for the brass ring, and never settling for less than what I know I can become.  My kids deserve better than what I had, and I have to give it to them.

Of course there’s a part of me that thinks a little Zoloft couldn’t hurt the situation.  But then there’s this largely Type-A part of me that thinks medication is the easy way out, and I shouldn’t have to be medicated to put up with my life.*  I also have my own personal issues with any sort of support of the big pharm companies (and the medical profession in general) so I just can’t go there.  Add that to the problems that Julesy had with his weight gain when I was taking the Zoloft, and it puts me off the whole idea of ingesting chemicals, especially while breastfeeding.  There just has to be a better way.  I don’t know what that way is yet, but it has to be there somewhere.  People didn’t always have Zoloft to save them from life’s little hurdles.

So, I’m chugging along.  But I’m not doing my best.  I’m too distracted, to anxious, and too irritable to be operating at 100% capacity.

But I really, really promise, when I come back from Mexico, I will have at least one really happy post.  A little bit of sand in my toes and I’ll be good-as-new, at least for a couple of days.  Mama needs a "Reset" button in the form of a Mexican cocktail.

_________________________________________

*Seriously, I’m talking about myself, and so before you write some long comment on how offended you are that I don’t dig prescription meds, just don’t.  Save yourself the trouble because I am not in the mood for anybody’s shit this week and I will delete that comment before you have a chance to refresh your screen.  I am not talking about your choice to be medicated, I’m talking about mine, so don’t internalize this.

Motherhood, Career, and Feelings of Worthlessness

Settle in for a self-indulgent pity party in honor of Yours Truly.  Today, I feel like junk, and somebody needs to hear about it.

I am lost.  And depressed.  And resentful.  And tired. 

Starting in August, I will be paying 2/3 of my salary to someone else to take care of my kids while I continue to shuffle off to a job I hate.  I make just a few dollars too much to give up my income all together, and believe me, I have really tried to find a way.  For the last 7 months, my MIL has been watching the boys for a relatively small sum.  But that favor ends this fall.  I've known this deadline was coming since last summer, so since then I've been trying to devise a plan to get out of this job and do something that would not only allow me to be home more with the kids, but would also allow me to take more classes so I can get done with my degree faster and get on with what I really want to do with my life.

What do I really want to do with my life, one might ask?  I want to be a lawyer.  Most specifically, I want to work in women's health and gender issues, and advocate for breastfeeding and VBAC education, legislation, and awareness.  But I have at least 3 years of my undergrad left (at this pace, 12 hrs a semester) and THEN another 3 years of law school.  However, it might be many, many years more of law school if I still have to work a full time job then.  And I just don't think I can keep up this pace.  Working full time, going to school full time, and being a mother is incredibly stressful, and I just don't think I can keep going in this gear for another 6 or more years.

So, for the last several months I've tried to develop some of my other skills into a small home-based business that could sustain my family while I finish school.  I have a talent for cake decorating, so I've been running a small part-time business doing wedding and birthday cakes out of my house.  However, I cannot afford the money it would take for me to LEGALLY expand this business and make it viable.  I'm flying under the radar now, but if the county health inspector found out I was making and selling cakes out of my kitchen, I'd get fined and the operation would be shut down.  This is the reason I can't quit my day job and take this thing full time.  I can't afford the licensing costs.

My other small business plan was to take my talent for public speaking and process implementation, along with my breastfeeding advocacy, and turn it into a consulting service that would help employers become more work/pump friendly.  I did this for my own company, and my brilliant friend suggested I turn it into my work.  I thought it was a great idea, seeing as how it would compliment my future law endeavors quite nicely, and started looking into getting my CLE certification so I could be an accredited professional.  Then I stumbled on a few other businesses that already offer these services, who have far more resources and credentials than I have, and I realized I would have no competitive edge.  This has been done, and by women far more talented than I.  I am not needed here.

So today I have no idea what I'm going to do in August.  I suppose I'll keep paying most of my salary to somebody else to raise my kids, while I spend 10 hours a day loathing my job, and the other 8-10 hours a day studying, sitting in class, baking cakes for money, and hardly seeing my children until one day, my body decides it's had enough, and I have an aneurysm at 37 the way my over-worked aunt did.

And today, I feel worthless.  I feel that all the talents I thought I had only look like talents until they're placed up against a woman who's truly made something of herself.  Then, I just look like a silly little girl with a hair-brained scheme and no real-world worth.

Excuse me.  I have to go make a cake now. The End.

What a Ridiculous Day

My day started out sucky at 2 a.m. - and it has only gotten worse.  I must have done something bad for the universe to be this pissy with me.

    Sucky Incident #1 - 2:00 AM: The only three times in the last year that I have gotten a decent stretch of sleep (and by decent I mean 4-5 hours) I have awoken each time with a plugged milk duct.  The second time, I got mastitis, which is something I honestly would not wish on my very worst enemy.  The strange part is that I can easily go 6-7 hours between pumping when I'm awake without even getting all that engorged.  But g*d forbid I get an ounce of sleep.  I have come to think of plugged ducts as my punishment for getting a tiny bit more rest than the universe apparently wants me to have.

So last night I woke up at 2 a.m. with a rock hard wedge in my right breast.  I poked John and told him to go get Julesy so I could nurse him.  Well, after Julesy drained the rest of the breast, the rock hard wedge was just that much more pronounced.  I went to look in the bathroom mirror and I could actually see it then.  My boob looked half deflated.  I went back in the bedroom and told Huz to feel it and as soon as he touched it he jumped back and said "Holy crap!"  So, I jumped in the tub and started trying to work it out, like I did the first time this happened (the time I didn't get mastitis).  Luckily this time I knew exactly what I was looking for, and I located the little white sliver right away. It only took a few seconds of squeezing and it popped out, then the geiser of milk flowed behind it.  The most insane thing happened next -- it KEPT shooting out.  I wasn't milking myself at all, I just cupped my breast on either side and watched it shoot out a stream of breastmilk halfway across the tub for 8 or 9 straight minutes (I was watching the clock.)  Imagine if you filled a water balloon and stuck a tiny pinhole in it.  It would shoot out a little pin-sized stream of water until he was completely deflated.  That's exactly what my breast did.  Man, these are some weird-ass parts we females have.

After the geiser died down, I got out of the bathtub, pumped 5 more ounces, then laid in bed for another hour and a half unable to sleep.

Sucky Incident #2 - 7:30 AM:  When I woke up with Julesy this morning, I realized his eye was almost swollen shut.  It was looking kind of bruised yesterday and the day before, but we thought it might just be an irritation from allergies, and decided to keep an eye on it to see if it got worse. Well, this morning, it was much, much worse.  He looked like a boxer.  So we rushed around calling the doctor, seeing what could be done, then getting him ready to go to the doctor with Grandma while we had to go off to work.*

Sucky Incident #3 - 9:00 AM:  I get to work, open my backpack, and realize I don't have my laptop with me.  My company-issued, only-computer-I-have-at-work laptop; the laptop that I absolutely must have in order to complete any work at all.  I was so distracted by the puffy-eyed baby that I completely forgot to put my laptop in my backpack.  Since I'm all the way downtown, I know it will take me a few hours back and forth (dependant on the train schedule) to go home and retrieve it. Crap!

I called MIL to see if she was already on her way to the doctor, thinking she might be able to bring it to me.  She was already on her way, but offered to turn around and bring it to me.  Since I knew she was already running late for the doctor, and since I didn't want to make her drag the kids all the way downtown, I decided just to tell my boss about the missing laptop and see what she suggested.  Luckily she'd had the same thing happen to her some months back.  She told me that our technical center had loaners they could give me for the day - so that's what I'm typing on now.  Of course I'm missing some files I need to get some things completed, but all-in-all I can live without my own laptop for just one day.

It's 11 a.m.  How much worse could it get today?  I have a midterm tonight.  Perhaps I'll bomb it and wrap up this day on the same sour note it started on.

Wish me luck...

_______________________

*BTW, it turns out Julesy's swollen eye is from an ear infection - the infection spread from his sinuses, into his ear, and caused the fluid to build up behind his eye.  crazy. Some antibiotics have been prescribed to treat the mess.

Pink and Purple Twilight Zone

I’ve made it quite clear that I want a daughter.  After today’s “incident” – I wonder if I have any idea what I’m wishing for.

We went to the Husband’s friend’s house for her little girl’s 5th birthday party.  She’s adorable, and apparently has quite a big crush on me.  Her mom tells me she listens to my CD until it wears holes in her mother’s ears, and she named one of her new baby dolls “Gina” today.  It’s sweet.  I’ve never done anything particularly fun with her, but I guess she must find something fun about me.

A few hours into the party we were sitting around the table and all the little girls were hanging out in the Birthday Girl’s room, playing Barbies or whatever it is little girls do.  All the sudden one of the other little girls, let’s call her Seven Year Old, came out and asked me if I would come into the bedroom with her to help her with something.  I was a little flattered that she’d pick me, so I took her hand and followed her into the room.

Just as I got in there with all the girls, Seven Year Old shuts the door hard behind me and locks it.  Then she turns to me with all the seriousness of a 25 yr old and says, “You’re going to clean up this room now.”

I laugh a little at the unexpected demand and I say “so, I’m guessing your mommy told you that you have to clean up when you’re done playing, right?”  She replies, “Yes, but we’re not going to clean it up, you are,” and she was as serious as a heart attack.

Just then, the pink and purple wall start to close in on me a little, and I say nervously, “No, I’m going back to the table, I think you guys can clean this up.”  Seven Year Old says “We locked the door, you’re not going anywhere.”

I notice all four girls start to pile in front of the door in an attempt to barricade me in.  I start to wonder if I’m hallucinating.  These girls aren’t joking.  The Pepto-Bismol walls and floor carpeted in Barbies, coupled with these four-foot-high dictators disguised as princesses, started to make me panic a little.

I say “Well, I can use my phone to call and have somebody let me out,” realizing just then that I actually didn't have my phone with me, which started my heart racing a little.  Then, I just go for it, and start to try to pull the door open.  Don’t ever underestimate the strength and determination of a group of girls.  I got the door open just enough to yell an exasperated “Can somebody help me here??!?!!?”

Seven Year Old’s mom comes running over, and by this time 3 of the girls have ahold of my leg, refusing to let me out the door.  I’m struggling to pull free, and SYO’s Mom has to start scolding them all about how they’re going to hurt me and make me fall down.

I finally pull free and run out of the room, embarrassed and discombobulated.  What just happened?  Did I really just get overtaken by a tiny gaggle of girls?  Did they really think I was going to fall for that?  Do I look stupid?

I relay the story to the Husband, who is peeing himself laughing… but I’m still a little shaken.  It was touch and go there for a minute.  And then I wonder… are all little girls just tiny little lunatics in training? 

If that’s the case, perhaps I don’t want one after all.

When there is no home to go to.

Lately, I've been feeling more and more depressed about my mom-less situation.  I don't have a mother.  I have never had one.  Sure, a woman gave birth to me, then proceeded to abuse and abandon me.  That woman left me on the doorsteps of grandparents and other relatives who passed me around for 18 years.  That woman never cared what happened to me, or that I was beaten by her father on almost a daily basis when I lived with him.  I have not spoken to that woman in 3 years - and hardly spoke to her before that.

I have no real "father" either.  The boy whose 14 year old testicles contributed to my conception is still in my life, but not really as a "father."  He was never a father.  I never really knew him until I was an adult, and really how much of a "father" can he be when we're practically the same age?  His mother and brothers took me on the weekend a few times a year, and bought me clothes and toys.  But no one did anything about the fact that my father was absent.  And no one did anything about the daily abuse and neglect I faced as a child.

In my family, these things weren't talked about.  I can't even talk to my aunt about it, who was raised (and beaten, and abused) the same way I was, because to her it's water under the bridge.  It's something we are just supposed to "get over."  I thought I "got over it" years ago... but maybe not.

As I get older, I'm becoming so envious of people with actual parents.  The older I get, the more I realize that I will never have that feeling.  I always thought if I could get my own life together, then things will finally be normal.  But they won't.  Things won't ever be normal for me.  I will never have a Mom and Dad.  I don't even understand the relationship dynamics of having real parents.

I suppose some will say I need therapy to deal with things like this.  But therapy doesn't do a lot for me.  I don't respond well.  I have thought lately about trying to get my dad in a room and explain to him how much his absense has truly affected me, but then I just feel like an asshole who's trying to unload on him when he only did the best he could -- he was a child himself after all.  And nothing can be done about my mother.  She is nonexistent to me.... there is no chance for repairing anything there.

I don't know.... I've just been depressed lately.  Maybe everything (meaning my entire life, not just my crazy schedule) is catching up with me.  It's especially hard to a motherless daughter around the holidays.

I wish it was possible to be adopted at 30.

Being reminded of old friends.

I once knew this girl who talked shit about everybody she knew.  We'd be hanging out, someone would walk in, she'd be super-nice to their face, and as soon as they'd leave, she'd be talking shit about them.  I began to notice that she was always somehow friends with these people that she constantly talked shit about.

It took me three years to realize that if she talked shit to me about everybody else, then she was definitely talking shit about me too.

I divorced this friend the minute I realized that I was also being dogged behind my back.  I actually overheard a phone conversation when she thought I was asleep.  It was a messy split, but I've always known it was the right thing to do.  No Looking Back.

Those who talk shit to you, are talking shit about you.

Now, often times I have some very unkind things to say about people too, and I fault no one for having a negative opinion about someone. However, I won't say something about someone behind their back that I won't also say to their face.  I make sure that people know exactly how I feel about them, if I in fact feel anything at all.

Perhaps this is why I have so few friends.  I don't play the game.  Perhaps this is why so many little scenesters didn't like my band.  I don't play the game.  When someone wrongs me, they're gone.  When I have a low opinion of someone, I don't keep them around.  I have no time in my life for weak characters, which helps me appreciate the few people I do consider worthy.  Call it bravado, but I see selectivity as intelligence.

And every so often, I'm reminded again that it is time to clean house.

I've Got Time On My Hands....

I need a hobby.  Something to take my mind off the whole waiting-for-a-job thing, and the whole waiting-for-this-baby-to-come-out thing.

A couple of weeks ago I started scrapbooking an album for the baby.  The problem is that the baby only had his picture taken once so far (the ultrasound)..... so there's not alot of material to scrapbook with.  Besides, I'm not very good at it.  My aunt actually has what could qualify as an entire scrapbooking store in her home, and her stuff puts mine to shame.

I like to sew, but I'd need to buy an expensive sewing machine to get started, and the goal is not to waste any more money while I'm waiting for the job.
I can only clean the house so many times before I want to throw the cats out the window for all the hair they leave everywhere.  Plus, that's not a hobby; it's a chore.  And if I bake any more cakes, my ass is going to turn into a cake.

I really need something to take my mind off of everything right now.  Sitting, waiting, can drive a person insane.  So, please, help me think of a hobby.  And no, don't tell me to write songs..... that's not a hobby, that's work.  Also, the hobby should involve very little physical exertion, because it's hard for me to move around these days.

Help.

Fixing a Hole.

Tonight, I took Beverly back to the shelter.  I can't handle her.  I'm having a hard time handling all the things I've taken on in the last year. 

A rubber band will only stretch until it breaks.

If you take on too much, eventually life will catch up with you and punch you in the face so you won't be so quick to forget your humility.

now tea, tylenol pm, and hopefully sleep.

For Kathryn....

I don't have a lot to say... I've been on a very weird schedule this whole week.  I started out by sleeping all day sunday, so I stayed up all night and through monday until about 4 p.m., then fell asleep and slept until 5 a.m. Tuesday.  Then I got up and stayed up until 1 a.m. wednesday, then slept until 8 a.m.  But I was so exhausted that I basically layed on the couch the entire day and fell asleep at 4 p.m. again, then woke up at 6:30 p.m. and now it's 7:06 a.m. on Thursday and I'm still awake.

Confused?  Me too.  I have absolutely no concept of time anymore.

The only thing I managed to do this week was get the contracts for the DJ and the wedding venue signed... so they're official.  I actually slept through my meeting with the florist, and since I've been sleeping when everyone else is awake we've had a hard time rescheduling.  This weekend I need to find a place to host our engagement party.  We originally planned on having one, then I decided it was too much of a hassle, but now we realize that it's important to get everyone together.  We want to have it before the end of September, so I need to get it booked and then send out the invitations asap.  I'm actually excited about it.  I need something fun right now because so far the wedding has been nothing but work and stress.

over and out.  g.

Those big fags on Rockstar: INXS

I only started watching this show because somebody told me that Marty from Lovehammers was on it, and I think Marty's a good guy.  I've played with his band before, and they were very kind to us.  Also, several of my other friends auditioned to be on that show.

However.... these people are so gay, I keep bursting out laughing.  It actually makes me so uncomfortable that I have to change the channel for a  minute until all the retardedness subsides.  I just want to see Marty do well. 
All the tattooed rock dudes keep crying... Yes, I said CRYING!

I can't take it anymore..  THERE'S NO CRYING IN ROCK 'N' ROLL YOU FAGS!

*disclaimer, I use the words fag, queer, and gay synonomously with anything pussy-like - I do NOT equate those words with homosexuality, so don't get your panties in a bunch.  Those who know me understand.  Those who don't shouldn't be reading my blogs.