a 360

To do the speediest of recaps, last summer ONE was approached by a male Target employee, who called her “Sweetie” and touched her stomach. Even though we dealt with it right away, she internalized it until she met her preschool teacher, who also happened to be male and (because there were 14 girls in her class), called them, “Sweetie.”

ONE immediately disliked her teacher and decided that she wanted a female teacher. When I wouldn’t switch her class she started to cry about school and begged to stay home. And then I was called into the principal’s office because both ONE’s teacher and teacher’s assistant were concerned that she appeared to have what looked like mini anxiety attacks when he spoke to her directly.

*          *          *

After much prayer and discussion, my husband and I decided to see a child psychologist. I would go first, discuss the situation, and from there we’d decide if ONE should join me. I spent the first half of the appointment explaining the situation. When I finished, the counselor asked me one question: Did I think anyone, teacher or family member or Target employee, had abused ONE physically or sexually? My husband and I had already obsessed over this a great deal and we believed with all of our hearts that no one had.

After I said “no,” the counselor told me that if there was no abuse, she believed ONE had “control issues.” Not that ONE looked at the situation as an opportunity to manipulate us, or that she actively understood that she was seeking to be in control. But that ONE felt as though she belonged and was important when she was the boss. Passive power. And her sense of worth heightened when she felt that she was right.

Sounds like it’s full of psycho-mumbly jumbo, right? Well, if you’ve been around here long you also know it sounds *exactly* like her. I just sat there. Dumbfounded. YES, I thought, it makes sense. The counselor made a series of suggestions (listed at the bottom of this post) and told me if I followed them, things would get worse for a while (since all of ONE’s tactics had worked up to that point). But if we were consistent and creative, ONE would get through it quickly.The counselor also said we should be pleased that we were dealing with it now. At age four there was plenty of time to adjust that type of “personal world-view.”

That night ONE’s favorite uncle came over. We (the grownups) discussed what the counselor said and waited to see if she’d bring up the teacher. And sure enough, when the uncle’s attention turned to TWO, ONE jumped right in with how her teacher made her feel uncomfortable. She whined about how she didn’t want to go to school on Monday. I turned to her and said, “We’re not discussing this tonight,” and changed the subject. She was surprised, but didn’t say anything else.

When it was time for bed she cried about the same thing. I kissed her good-night and told her I was sorry she felt that way, but she was going to school. ONE has always had a hard time sleeping and only recently cried about it being because of her teacher. Before that it was about a myriad of other things. Tactics that had never worked. Mention of the teacher, however, always worked. Which, according to the counselor, is why she used it so much.

That night I tried something else. I asked her if she’d like us to move TWO into her bedroom. ONE thanked us, did a bed dance, and begged us to do it right away. We moved TWO into her room and she never cried about her teacher at night again.

And that was that.

Mind you, we did not close off teacher discussions. We spoke about him every time she brought him up. We just didn’t give her the concerned attention we did before. And because of that, she literally lost interest. We worked closely with the teacher during this time and he continued to have the female TA address all of her needs at school. He didn’t change the way he taught the class, and he remained available to ONE, but from a distance and on her terms.

In about a week, her view of her teacher completely changed. She started counting down to school days and spoke about him incessantly. She began teaching TWO the things she learned in his class, and even brought TWO in for “sharing” one week.  She’s also started talking about how she wanted to skip Kindergarten so she could stay in his class. Which, now that we had a better understanding of how poorly she handled change, we could deal with proactively.

We recently had ONE’s parent-teacher meeting. After the super-positive academic/social talk, he told me a story. The other day when ONE was picked up by a friend, he said good-bye to her. She turned, ran back into the classroom and gave him a hug. He paused as he recounted this, and smiled. He said he was really surprised, but it made him feel good. That changes like that were one of the biggest rewards of working with kids.

*          *          *

Some tips on deals with kids who feel good when they control: Don’t fight/argue with the child and don’t give in.• Withdraw from conflict • Decide what you will do ahead of time • Let routines be the boss • Leave and calm down • Give limited choices • Set reasonable and few limits • Encourage • Redirect to positive power • Do the unexpected • Be firm and kind • Act, don’t talk.

Sound like it’s right out of a text book? It is. I’m pretty sure it was photocopied out of a book I used in a child psych class. But it worked. Every last one of those suggestions worked with her.

SEE COMMENTS FOR FURTHER DISCUSSION.

©2010 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Toucb my stuff and your ass is mine. Seriously.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

sinners’ club – peace for despair

What is Sinners’ Club? I’m glad you asked. Click —> here

*                    *                    *

The “Peace of God” is something you hear mentioned a lot in church. Religious people love to say things like, “it’s the peace that passes understanding.” As if quoting scripture out of context means anything.

But what is God’s peace? Is it real? How does one experience it? And what does it feel like? One of my best friends explains it best. She encountered it in a hospital room while holding the baby who died before she was delivered.

Meet MaryAnne.

___

I became a Christian when I was 14 and walked closely with God until I had children. I had dreamed of becoming a mother all of my life, and I was fool enough to believe I could do it by myself. And I tried.

My husband was in the Navy on submarines. This meant that he was attached to the sub for 6 months out the year with a deployment schedule of 3 months out-to-sea and then 3 months home. When my son was 2 and my daughter was 1, I had one of the hardest 3 months of my life alone with them. During that time I decided to get my tubes tied.

As I sat in the doctor’s office awaiting the start of the procedure, they took a precautionary pregnancy test and announced that I was pregnant. I was scared to death. I wasn’t afraid of being pregnant; I loved pregnancy and giving birth. I was scared that I wouldn’t be able to be a good mother to my children should I have to put in another 3-month-sleepless-patrol with my husband at sea and no family for support.

I had a ultrasound right away to determine how far along I was, and found that my placenta was lodged beneath the baby. In addition to that, I was in pain right from the start and I just knew in my heart that something was wrong. My husband was back at sea when I had my first visit to see the Navy doctor, at 22 weeks. (Up to that point it was standard to only see a nurse practitioner.) I told the doctor of my pains and he said I was a “paranoid mother” and told me to leave his office.

Two weeks later I had a second ultrasound and found out that the placenta had moved, which was good. But the ultrasound also showed that the baby had stopped growing 4 weeks prior. I went home and was consumed with the fear of loosing my baby and the anxiety of being alone with two toddlers. I had nonstop migraines, I couldn’t sleep and my heart raced every moment that I was awake. The only thing I could handle was taking care of my children, and making sure their routine and security was not effected.

But it became too much to handle, so I finally reached out to God. I admitted that I couldn’t get through it without Him, and asked for His help. I prayed that He would perform a miracle and keep our baby alive until my husband got back from sea. I knew I didn’t have what it took to deal with losing a baby by myself.

The instant I finished the prayer, I was calmed. My heart stopped racing, and all of the fear was gone. The calm and peace I felt in my heart flowed through my body as I literally felt all of my muscles relax. It was the first time in 5 months that the pregnancy pain was completely gone and everything felt normal.

Two weeks later I learned that our baby was beginning to grow again. She was still 4 weeks behind, however the growth had picked up where it had left off, bringing hope once again. It was around this time that husband returned. After he’d been home for a few days, I realized that the baby had stopped moving. When we arrived at the hospital, I was rushed into ultrasound.

We had lost our baby at 28 ½ weeks.

And since it was a Friday, I was told that the staff wasn’t available to induce labor, which meant that I’d have to wait until Monday to deliver my baby. I was beyond broken and went into labor as soon as we got home. Filled with fear and hopelessness I once again cried out to God with all I had. I couldn’t go through the motions of getting a baby sitter, packing a bag and all the fuss of spontaneous labor for a dead baby. Instantly the labor pains stopped and I was calm.  Although that weekend was one of the hardest times of our lives, the labor never returned, and the peace of God never left.

The following Monday I was put on the OB/GYN surgical floor instead of labor and delivery to spare me the heartache of hearing live babies cry. A very thoughtful notion on the behalf of the doctor, however the young staff was clueless as to what to do with me, especially when I went into labor earlier than expected and they couldn’t reach a doctor. I heard someone say “but he’s downstairs delivering a live baby.” Even with comments like that, extreme physical pain and hardly any pain medication administered, I was at perfect peace.

With no doctor still, our daughter Jessica was delivered into the arms of my husband.  As I thanked God for His presence and His love for us, I noticed that all of the staff remained in the room, just standing there. When I asked why, a nurse said that there was something – a presence – in the room that compelled them to stay. She said that they were all amazed at the peace my husband and I shared as together we delivered our child.

And then they  gave me some time alone with my baby. She was 12 inches long and weighed about 1.5 lbs. Besides being so tiny as to fit in my hand instead of my arms – she looked perfectly normal, as though she was only asleep. Holding her, I cried. I cried for the child she would have been, for every thing I had endured, and I cried my anger at God until there was nothing left. And then I prayed, “Jesus, into your hands I trust my baby girl.  I know you will take good care of her and love her for me.  Please give her a kiss and hug for me everyday, and keep me in the faith until I can be with you and her together in Heaven.”

And now, all these years later, I have never forgotten that peace. I have never stopped seeking it for other areas of my life. And I have never stopped being thankful for my children. My son who is 20, my daughter who is 19, and my second daughter, who has had the gift of living her 17 years with Jesus in Heaven.

.

.

©2010 MAH. All Rights Reserved.

To listen to Pastor King’s message, A Loving God Would Never… click —> here

If you’re looking for something else, you can also search through 6 years worth of Pastor King’s sermons here —>Cherrydale Archives. Not quite sure what you’re looking for? Allow me to recommend his series on the Book of Ruth. It’s one of my favorites.

©2005 Cherrydale Baptist Church. All Rights Reserved.

31 hours later…

Yeah…that’s MY CAR.

…and it’s STILL snowing.

Check out Unknown Mami’s for other great photos…and you can pretend, like I do, that you live somewhere else. Somewhere without snow…

.

.

©2010 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and your ass is mine.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

escape plan

Remember these from elementary school?

I was always disappointed when I’d go home after Fire Prevention Day and find that we only had one way to escape the house. It wasn’t exciting or dramatic. Pretty much just stop, drop and roll out the door.

As a mom I often get trapped in days with one escape – bedtime. And bedtime is always really, really far away. For the last year I also struggled with depression, but because it was brought on gradually by my Mirena, I didn’t realize I was depressed. During that time I needed more ways to escape, but when you’re depressed you can’t focus enough to form a plan. (And if you can, you don’t believe it will work anyway). So now that I’m thinking clearly again, I’ve made some alternative plans in advance.

BAD MOMMMY/KID DAYS: Sometimes they’re sold separately. Other times, they’re all inclusive. Either way there’s rarely a warning before everything goes bad fast. There’s screaming and whining and walls closing in. Stand-offs, anxiety, headaches and nothing helps. Some days are just like that. Especially in the winter. So I keep a few movies stored away. Guilt-free movies for the kids when I can’t deal. I also hide a treat of the chocolate persuasion for myself along with a note reminding me that I work my a** off for my family. I do my best. And it’s okay that I can’t always do it all.

REALLY, REALLY GREAT MOMMY/KID DAYS. These days always surprise me. They also seem to come when I already have the day packed with to-dos. Like earlier this week when the girls came up with a brilliant plan to ride their bikes in the basement. Which meant that I’d have to actually clean the basement, which was a HOLE. But I knew it would kill a lot of time, and it needed to get done anyway. So I dropped the errands and cleaned while they played. And in return they spent hours riding when I was finished. Together. Happy. Then they wanted a mid-day bath, which was followed by the urgent request for pajamas at 3pm, which was the time we’d normally leave for Dance Class. But not that day. We skipped it in favor of:

Mostly because sometimes it’s important to throw plans out the window for impromptu and unstructured play. But also because pajama socks on chubby feet are hilarious…

6th SNOW STORM OF THE SEASON DAYS: Look, this is DC. We’re supposed to control snow (while pretending we don’t), argue it publicly and then never actually resolve it. And then it’s supposed to go away quietly while we congratulate ourselves on defeating it. It’s not supposed to make good on its threat and dump itself everywhere again and again and again. But when you get 6 inches on Saturday, 6 inches on Tuesday and another 20 promised for Friday, it’s time for the Mother of All Escapes. It’s time to rent this:

*THIS* is what emergency funds are for.

It’s okay to not have an escape plan for everything. But knowing you have a back-up just in case makes being a mom a little bit easier. Because sometimes “stop, drop and roll” won’t cut it.

.

.

©2010 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and your ass is mine.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

burningQs: take this paci and suck it

“Isn’t she a little old for that?” an old lady asked TWO. She was really asking me, but wouldn’t look past my child’s mouth. If she had, she would have received a visual smackdown.

What I wanted to say was, “In your house I’m sure she would be.”

What I actually said was, “Normally we only let her have it in bed, but lately she just hasn’t been herself. It seems to be the only thing that comforts her.”

The old lady clucked the way self-righteous women do when they sense they’ve won a victory over a weaker person. And, like the passive-aggressive individual I am, I hurried my kid away from her and spent the better part of the afternoon b*tching about it to my childhood BFF (Birdy) and my online BFF, The Kitchen Witch (TKW).

ME: I totally wanted to kick her a**. Is that wrong? I mean, besides the fact that she was, like, 80 and probably would’ve died.

TKW: I’ve seriously wanted to kick ass over that, too. Especially the neighbor who would just bend down and pluck the paci out of Miss M’s mouth and say, “Oh, you don’t need that.”

BIRDY: Look, my kid had a binky until he was 4, so we got a lot of sneers. And when I recalled the events in my head, I always added parts where I stuck my newly aquired “ghetto Long Branch one finger and chicken head roll” in that woman’s face and told her that first of all she had no idea how old my kid was…maybe he was just tall for 2…and if she would rather listen to him shriek like a harpy in this 4×6 elevator then she had my permission to take it out, but that meant she was also committing to sleeping at my house for the next 3 weeks while he suffered withdrawal.

ME: I guess this wouldn’t be the best time to mention that I was a little weirded out when I came over and he was sucking his binky while beating your husband at that video game…

BIRDY (ghetto Long branch one finger and chicken head roll): Girl, you betta watch it.

ME (clears throat): I once read this blog post where a woman ranted about how parents who let their kids suck on pacifiers are really afraid of their kids. I was so mad when I read it and…

TKW: I was definitely afraid to take my kid’s paci!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Holy Exploding Continuous Tantrums, Batman! Plus, I get little enough sleep as it is; add several more disruptions to my night and Social Services would have to get involved.

BIRDY: The fear of reliving months one through six when he wouldn’t sleep because he had to nibble at my breasts every two hours sucked….but now I was gonna loose sleep because I had to be the adult and do what was best for his dental hygene and emotional stability???? Oh HELL no!

ME: Wow. That’s a lot of punctuation marks. You guys must be weaker…I mean, feel stronger about this than I thought.

TKW: You’ve got a wise mouth for someone who just took smack from an old lady.

ME: You’re right, you’re right. I’m afraid of my kid. Whatever. That’s my deal. Why do people make platform issues on things that have nothing to do with them? Why make moms who are already sensitive about it feel worse? It’s not even an Official Cause. It’s not like I’m putting my kid at an oral disadvantage. You saw my teeth as a kid – my husband’s were worse. She’s destined for major dental work regardless and the pacifier also doubles as an appetite suppressant when she’s bored. What is wrong with that? And, more importantly, how on earth am I going to take it away?

BIRDY: Don’t take it away…let her give it up. She will. One day, after I’d finally excepted that my kid would suck a binky until he was in High School, he up and and stopped caring about it. No warning…no nothing…just one day he stopped asking…and I breathed a deep, cavernous sigh of relief!

TKW: On Miss M’s 3rd birthday, I bought a ton of helium balloons. We tied her pacis to the helium balloons and at her party, the kids got to launch the balloons into the air for Babies in Heaven who needed them. However, be noted that it takes TWO balloons to be strong enough to launch ONE pacifier. Some dumbass didn’t know this and had to run to the store for more balloons mid-party. (Miss M still gets a paci at night. But only at night. What can I say? I am weak.)

ME: You know what? You’re right. I’m overreacting. It’s a phase. Everything will be fine. People will either stop judging me and my kid, or I’ll stop caring if they don’t. And one day TWO will no longer be a pacifier user.

BIRDY: Riiiiight…your kid? She’ll be taking that binky with her to college.

TKW: Yeah. Sorry, Sweets. You’re screwed.

.

See what The Kitchen Witch is cooking up —> here. She serves her recipes with wit and memories and is single-handedly bringing back the glory of White Trash Dinner Delights.

Do not visit Birdy. Especially on Facebook. Like any childhood BFF she has some damming photos of me and if she were a nicer person she’d take them down.

Or just stick around. Here are a few more burningQs to pick from:

BurningQs: a rose by any other name would suck

BurningQs: stolen cat – fact or fiction?

.

.

©2010 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and your ass is mine.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

sinners’ club – future blackmail

What is Sinners’ Club? I’m glad you asked. Click —> here

*                    *                    *

Lindy, over at Future Blackmail, is a 30 year-old working mom who recently opened the home she shared with her husband and 7 year-old daughter, to welcome her two teenage step kids (one whom she and her husband still fight to keep custody of). Her blog is one of my favorites.

I read  Future Blackmail daily because I love Lindy’s voice, her heart, her magnet OCD and the hilarious banter between she and her husband in the comments. They are just two regular people living inspiring lives. But like many stories of love and faith, hers wasn’t always what it is today.

Meet Lindy.

—

Some people might say that I walked away from the Church. Others might say I was never there to begin with. I like to think that I’ve walked my faith all along. I just didn’t know it.

I was born and raised Catholic and went to Church every Sunday. When I was 10, my parents got divorced and put me into counseling. During that time I still attended church and religious education classes, but not because I put my faith and trust in the Lord; I was told I had to.

As a young adult, I centered my life around making choices for myself. Not because they were right or wrong, but because I wanted to. The Church and the Lord were nonexistent to me, except when I blamed Him for what I was being handed. What led me to tell my Mom that I had lost my virginity to my boyfriend, I’ll never know. I was embarrassed, and proud. I was picking my path, making my choices.

When I was 18 I attended a local hockey game and was approached by a small boy who said he wanted my phone number for his uncle. That day I met the man who bribed his nephew with a pair of tear-away basketball pants to get my number, and four years later he asked me to marry him.

We were engaged for a year, during which time I did not attend church and only prayed when I needed something. And although my beloved Grandmother was very vocal about my husband becoming Catholic and getting married in the Church, it was a difficult topic to breach because his family was Jehovah Witness.

Three months before our wedding I found out I was pregnant. Although certainly not perfect timing, we were excited nonetheless. We were married at a park in 2002. If you would have asked me then, I would have told you that all of our friends and family were there and it was a beautiful day. Today I look back and realize I was choosing my journey and the Lord was not invited.

Six months later, our daughter was born. We had both lost our jobs – me the day we returned from our honeymoon and him a month later – and were broke. We ate pancakes for every meal because the only thing we needed for the pancake mix was water. I felt completely gypped of the birthing experience because all I could think about was how we would afford it. How could this child have been so unlucky to be born to people without a penny to their name? I never thanked God for a healthy, beautiful little girl because I was no longer speaking to Him.

Matthew 6: 25-33

Shortly after giving birth, I discovered a lump in my breast. I went to two doctors who both said that because I was so young and had no family history I shouldn’t be worried. But I couldn’t bear the thought of my daughter not knowing me. I couldn’t imagine missing her 1^st steps, her 1^st words, her 1^st day of school or her 1^st child. I had also watched way too much Oprah to just accept that I was “okay,” so I scheduled an ultrasound and had tests done.

The doctors were right. I was fine. It was the first time in my life that something had turned out the way I wanted it to and I was grateful. But I was still not willing to accept Christ as a positive influence in my life. And I would certainly not thank Him. It would be an admission that I had prayed to Him for something and I wasn’t ready for that.

Over the next few years my marriage began to fall apart. It was full of hurt, anger, and resentment. Finally everything blew up and we decided to get a divorce. Neither one of us could do *it* anymore. We were supposed to take our daughter to my father’s lake house that weekend and regardless of our situation we decided it was important for one of us to still take her. She loved it there and we would not allow her life to change just because ours was falling apart. And for some reason, even after all the yelling and screaming and fighting, my husband joined us. He held my hand during the car trip. It was his peace offering and I accepted. And after that weekend, we decided against the divorce.

But I would not thank God. He owed me this.

I knew that the threat of a divorce wouldn’t alone solve our problems, so I wasn’t surprised when we still couldn’t make it work. During this time something drew me back to the church. I don’t know what it was, but I would drive there, sit in the parking lot and cry. I would never go in – I was a long forgotten child and the door would probably be locked; a sure sign I was no longer welcome.

Matthew 7:7-8

And then one day my husband said he had gone to the Church and inquired about becoming Catholic. He had tried to think of what had gotten my Grandparents to 55 years of marriage and he realized it was their shared faith. So he attended classes and soon became a part of the RCIA process.

I was hesitant at first, but slowly began attending Mass with him and our daughter. It was interesting to watch him grow and learn in our faith. Although he had only attended classes for a few months, he knew more about our religion than I did after 8 years of religious education. What an experience it was for me to be taught, by my husband, the meaning and treasure of being found in the Lord.

And then one day he asked me why I didn’t take the wine at Communion. I didn’t have a good answer for him. It was just something that I had never done. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t wait to be able to take part fully in this Sacrament, and here I was, able to, and chose not to.

And that was when it hit me. I had chosen for the Lord not to be a part of my life. I had chosen to do it on my own. I realized what a mistake I’d made. I was ready to change.

Matthew 6:34

In October of 2006, our marriage was blessed in the Church and on Easter 2007, my husband was baptized into the Catholic Faith. Since then we have attended Bible Studies together and put our daughter in religious education classes. I also co-directed Vacation Bible School and he traveled with the Youth Group to West Virginia for a Habitat for Humanity trip. Both of us have since attended Renewal Weekends within our parish and as I write this today, I am sponsoring a Candidate through RCIA and will be welcomed fully into the Church this coming Easter.

Psalms 138:1-3

Although we still have trails and hard situations, with my renewed faith, my husband’s new faith and our daughter’s growing faith, we understand that the Lord has promised to walk with us in our journey and it all doesn’t seem so bad.

This past June we celebrated our 7^th wedding anniversary. I never would have thought, 11 years ago at that hockey game, that I would find the Lord.

.

©2010 LF. All Rights Reserved. Check out Lindy’s daily blog at Future Blackmail, and meet her daughter, her stepkids and Hottness (her husband). They’re hilarious together. Or you can follow her on Twitter.

*                    *                    *

To listen to Pastor King’s message, When I Need Answers to Prayers, click —> here

If you’re looking for something else, you can also search through 6 years worth of Pastor King’s sermons here —>Cherrydale Archives. Not quite sure what you’re looking for? Allow me to recommend his series on the Book of Ruth. It’s one of my favorites.

©2003 Cherrydale Baptist Church. All Rights Reserved.

the dance

The sky is blue, cloudless. It’s windy and cold in the shade, but 50 degrees in the sun. The girls play with him in the sandbox. They hand him a shovel and proclaim him ruler of their kingdom. His voice is loud as he announces them to his court. They cheer. They always do when he’s around. He’s one of our closest friends. More like family, really. He’s also an addict.

He’s been an addict longer than I’ve been alive. He’s spent most of the years I’ve known him in personal recovery. But the last year has been hard. We didn’t see him for almost half of it. He’s not allowed to come by when he’s high. And he doesn’t.

I watch the three of them dig for treasure. I marvel, as I always do, at how well he engages them. How childlike he is around them. How patient. And then he stops digging. He’s crouched down, shovel still in hand, but he’s not moving. He starts to lean.

He’s about to pass out.

Fury rages through my head. He called about this trip to the park. He set it up, not me. I want to let him fall on his face. I want him to get sand in his mouth. I want him to struggle to fabricate some silly, bullsh*t reason for why he keeled over in the sandbox.

I call to him. He snaps back. He had no idea he was “falling asleep.” I tell him we’re leaving in a few minutes. We hadn’t been at the park for long and I’d picked him up on the way, so I have to concoct a graceful exit that doesn’t include alerting the girls that something is wrong. But what I want to do is leave his ass at the park so he can feel his way back home.

TWO and I walk over to the climbing area. I watch ONE. She adores him. The world stops for her when he walks through our door. He pulls magic from behind her ears. Brings her random gifts that make sense only to her. And he’s the only person left who will still play Barbies with her.

I announce that it’s time to leave. The girls moan and whine. I hope he makes it to the car. I have no idea how high he is, or what he’s high on. I hadn’t recognized it in his voice. I hadn’t even realized he was messed up when he got into my car. I want to kick myself. I know he’s an addict. That his addiction rules his life and will always come first. But I must have gotten hopeful again.

He behaves like a child, blowing an Oscar Meyer Weenie Whistle as we lumber towards the car. The girls laugh and giggle and fight for his hands. Just get us home, I pray. I buckle TWO in. ONE climbs into her booster seat and insists that he buckle her in. He can’t figure out how to get the seatbelt to work. Her voice raises as she explains over and over that all he has to do is pull the belt over her shoulder and snap it. I watch them, knowing how much worse it will make things if I assist. He grabs the belt to the middle seat, even though she’s sitting on the end. She yells at him, sounding like me. He snaps back and figures it out.

I stare straight ahead as I drive him home. I am so sad I feel drunk.

“It looks like that snow we were expecting on Friday is going to pass us,” he says.

Tomorrow is Friday, I think. He is supposed to come over in the morning to help me with something. I wonder if he remembers.

“I think we’ll be okay tomorrow,” I say.

“I know you will,” he says. “You always are.” We are at his house, both looking out our respective windows.

“No,” I said. I focus on the steering wheel. “We won’t need your help tomorrow morning.”

He looks down at his old, callused hands. “I know. I figured you’d say that.” He turns around in the seat and bellows a mighty fair-well to the girls. They beg him to come home with us to play with them and stay for dinner. He thanks them, but declines.

He starts waving at them before he closes his door. He waves at them while he walks behind the car, even though they can’t see him. And he waves to them from the sidewalk as he watches us drive away.

It feels so final. I wonder if this is the last time we’ll see him. I wonder if this will be the time he’ll go too far. I wonder how far he’s gone already.

Please just get us home, I pray. And please keep him safe.

.

.

©2010 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and your ass is mine.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

barbie™ employee reaches out

Arlington, Virginia (BMM)– In related news, a DC-based stay-at-home-mom claims that Mattel has attempted to depict a mother’s secret emotional struggles in their Barbie™ Doggie Walking set.

“At first I thought it was just another bad idea put forth by Mattel. I mean, seriously. Barbie wears a skirt and roller skates while walking a dog? What executive shot a wad in the board room on this one? “

And then one day, CK heard laughter coming from the room where her two small daughters played. She was immediately suspicious.

“And there they were, taking turns with the mother dog and her puppy. The concept of the toy itself makes no sense at all, but if you isolate the mother, you start out with a happy, stationary dog. She’s smiling, well-groomed and glowing in the joy of a cute baby.’”

“And then you put the puppy on her back…and she runs away.

“And no matter how far or how fast the mother dog runs, she can’t shake off the puppy. It remains on her back, unmoved. If you don’t take the puppy off for her, the mother literally runs in circles like she’s chasing after her old life and can’t catch it. The only time she stops on her own is when this happens:”

“Look at her. Her legs are still moving. She doesn’t even realize that she’s fallen. She’s physically hurt herself in the attempt to get away from her offspring. And just like the unphased puppy, my two-year-old glories in this part. ‘Again! Again!’ she cries until her sister picks up the mother dog and returns the puppy to her back. And off they go again.”

Mattel could not be reached for comment.

“It’s funny to watch my daughters ignore the Barbie in favor of the mother dog and her baby. They have no idea why they relate to the puppies, but I do. So does Mattel.

“Sure moms are portrayed as the afterthought right now, the accessory. We pull along the girl who needs help dressing herself and eating. But we’re being acknowledged and that’s the first step. Maybe next they’ll give us a voice and let us inhabit an actual body. A real woman. Like the cafeteria lady or the housekeeper…”

BMM’s CK contributed to this report.

.

.

©2010 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and your ass is mine. Seriously.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

pantyhead

My mom laughs at me a lot. Not in a bad way, though if there is anyone in the world who deserves to laugh her a** off at my expense, it’s her. But that’s not why she laughs. She laughs because she feels sorry for me. Which, honestly, is worse than being laughed at.

She feels sorry for me because she’s watching me face things about myself that she’s known since I was a kid. Things I spent my whole life not knowing because I chose to bury and forget them instead.

And then I went and birthed a child with shovel-hands.

This…ONE. This…flesh-of-my-flesh digs up unpleasant things about me regularly, which I’d continue to ignore if I didn’t have to correct it in her behavior.

For example, I’ve learned that I expect to do things perfectly the first time, and if I can’t, I quit.

I don’t want to try things I’m not positive I’ll succeed at.

My voice goes from calm to angry with little warning.

I expect ONE to just know things and to be comfortable in situations because I tell her it’s okay.

I don’t adjust well to change.

I need to make a list, mental or physical, because I need to know exactly what we’re doing next.

And I shut down when I get overwhelmed.

I’m admitting these things because I’m hoping it will motivate me to change myself. AND because I’d like to avoid a repeat of walking onto the porch and finding ONE wearing something of mine that I forgot I had. Something she dug out of the basement with her shovel-hands.

Because apparently, I also don’t throw things out.

No, she's not pretending to be Amish.

...or the Flying Nun.

In my defense, I thought I only saved journals, photographs and books. But it appears that I also hoard fish-net, post-partum boxer-panties.

Clearly it’s time to start cleaning the basement and making changes.

But in the meantime, ONE better get ready to be laughed at. Sure she’s digging now, but she’ll be burying her own garbage soon.

And I’ll be waiting.

Smiling in the shadows as I imagine the moment I pass along the shovel to the first child she gives birth to.

.

©2010 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Touch my stuff and I’ll mail your kid a shovel.

Want some daily affirmation that you’re not the only bad mommy out there? Follow me on Twitter and we’ll bad-mommy-it together.

sinners’ club – hearing voices

What is Sinners’ Club? I’m glad you asked. Click —> here

*                    *                    *

If you’ve ever spent an extended time with Christians, you’ve probably heard them speak about “hearing God’s voice.” Some people claim to hear Him audibly, others in their dreams or through messages taught by a pastor. For me, hearing God’s voice comes in thoughts. Which, given my head, can be dangerous to trust sometimes. But the thoughts are usually peaceful…and entirely against my nature. My first response is often, “Thanks, but no way.” Because God doesn’t call me to do things I’m comfortable with. Ever.

The best way I can describe hearing His voice is with this story:

When I was 24 and just a few months away from receiving a Bachelor’s degree in writing for Film and Television, I had two very exciting things happen. First, I found out that I was a finalist for an internship with the Academy of Arts and Sciences (The Emmy Awards people) in LA. And second, out of 52 people who had pitched their screenplays during the Philadelphia Film Festival, I was one of handful who had a producer (also from LA) pick up their script.

To say I was high on life was an understatement. I had dreamed of LA for years, wanting a career in writing more than anything else. This was it. I was on my way. That night I felt an urgent thought. “Write a letter to your High School Drama Teacher and thank him.” Simple? Hardly. I was appalled.

My high school drama teacher and I despised each other. We got into a heated fight my freshman year and he told some lies about me and I never forgave him. I spent the remainder of my high school career loathing him with everything I had and he spent that time sticking me in the chorus. I hadn’t thought about him in years, but clearly I hated him still.

I dismissed the ridiculous thought to thank him. I brooded over it, though. Thank him for what? Being an a**hole and ruining my dreams of the stage? But the thought was persistent. It popped into my mind as I was falling asleep or walking to class or anytime I was silent. Never accusingly. It felt as light as a feather floating to the ground.

Little by little I entertained the thought. What would I write? My mental drafts started off with variations of, “Hey, thanks for not believing in me! Because you stomped on me when I was 15, I turned to writing and…” But then I started remembering the other things. The way he encouraged me to write. The way he pushed me and other students to use stories I wrote in acting competitions. An exercise, I realized, that taught me how to pitch my own work. And finally I remembered the time he secretly entered a play I wrote in an East Coast Playwriting Contest and it won. How had I forgotten?

I was humbled. My drama teacher saw that I wasn’t an actor long before I did. He knew I was a writer. I started questioning my angsty memory. Had he really lied about me? Or did I filter what happened through the angry eyes of an embarrassed teenager? And did it even matter anymore? I prayed that God would forgive my stubborn heart and help me write the letter. It was pretty easy in the end. Because in the end I was grateful.

A few weeks later he wrote me back.

He congratulated me on my success. He noted that my last name had changed and congratulated me on getting married. And then he told me that my letter reached him on the day he found out he had cancer and was questioning everything in his life. He was especially questioning his legacy as a teacher, as his diagnosis wasn’t good. My letter gave him encouragement when he needed it most.

I cried as I read his letter. God knew just how long it would take me to respond to His calling and His timing was, as it always is, perfect. I was overwhelmed as I sat there. Feeling a closeness to the God who was with all people all the time and KNEW exactly what my drama teacher was going to need at that very moment. And because I responded, I got to experience true forgiveness, which filled an angry void in my life with peace, and unknowingly lift the spirits of a dying man.

*                    *                    *

To listen to Pastor King’s message, God Knows and Cares, click —> here

If you’re looking for something else, you can also search through 6 years worth of Pastor King’s sermons here —>Cherrydale Archives. Not quite sure what you’re looking for? Allow me to recommend his series on the Book of Ruth. It’s one of my favorites.

.

.

© 2010 CEK. All Rights Reserved. Message ©2005 Cherrydale Baptist Church. All Rights Reserved.