Goddammit. All the things.

You have no idea how many times I have mentally prepared myself to sit down at my dusty-assed laptop to write a blog post.

About things. So many things. All the things. ALL THINGS. But then, in my head, I can't justify spending time doing something so purely for myself with no tangible benefit without first accomplishing one of my many failed tasks around the house. So I start by tidying up, or loading and starting the dishwasher...

(which is a masterful skill if you ask me because I manage to fit EVERYFUCKINGPOSSIBLE dishwasher-safe dirty dish in there, if it's the last thing I do. And when I'm feeling particularly risque, I toss in one or two dangerously NOT dishwasher-safe items. I like to spice it up and play Russian Roulette with deadly melty plastic in the components of the machine. Will it melt? Will I ruin the 17-year old dishwasher and HAVE to get a new one? Will it all work out fine? Oooooh, who knows, I am SO living on the edge right now*. 

Usually this thought process is interrupted by Baby D requesting that I help wipe her bum.

But, as I was saying, I'm WILD, y'all).

So, at least if I have accomplished something, then I feel like it's not so bad to sit down and blog.

#nofilter bwhahahaha

Funny thing though, once I tidy the counter minimally and try to get the dishwasher started, my bird brain sees something shiny and then gets totally derailed. And not in the oh-hey-I'm-on-a-roll-Imma-keep-cleaning type of derailment. It's so much like an old forwarded email I read. I see one thing I really wanted to deal with so I pick that up, and walk to the location where I wanted to file/read/call/clean/complete it, and I remember that I need to do something more time-sensitive, like start laundry then while I know I'll be home long enough for the machine to run.

To the basement I will go, but realize I forgot those two items on the top floor I needed, so go get them, and then this process repeats itself until it's time to get Baby D from Preschool, or she needs me in some other form, and tasks are stopped because, well, crazy preschooler.

I manage to never fully complete ANY task, nor do I get started at the laptop. Nope. I get 893,274 things 10, or 20 or 50% completed. I create more mess in the process. I feel even more like a failure for being so discombobulated**, stressed at the mess, and worse off at the end of the day.

That blog post? I remember it as my drowsiness-inducing allergy medicine kicks in, while I am in bed, at a time later than it should be. And the idea dies for another day.

So far, this post has taken one preschool trip, one laundry round, two preschooler negotiations, an indoor dog shit, a urgent foam fill spill vacuuming, and one pee being painfully held in, just to get here.

Anyway, I'm sure that most people who used to come here once and a while and read have given up on me. And I wouldn't blame them. But I really miss writing. I miss brain-vomiting all over this here Blogger page. I need to write more and want to write more. Even if it is just for the sake of cleaning out a dusty corner in the ol' bird brain.

* I am not a completely reckless person. I still make sure that plastic shit is top rack. I'm not a madwoman. Geesh.
** That word is so much fun.


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The End of Nursing My Toddler?

A few nights ago, we'd had an okay day, but I was so grumpy. All the posts I've failed to finish on here have been about my health trials and tribulations since last June. Injury, illness, injury, illness, surgery gone wrong, more illness, then another illness. I was feeling the worst of last said illness.

This last illness is mastitis. Pretty sure it was from my new venture of trying to learn to run properly (as opposed to the clusterf*ck that was me trundling through a half-marathon in September without adequate training...) with my new sports bras. Those puppies squished the girls so much, my milk ducts on ole righty decided to reply with anger and pain. For those unaware, mastitis is basically a brutal boob infection.

The chemical content can change in breast milk during mastitis and the baby/toddler may not like the taste of the milk. While this was surely happening with Baby D, I also felt pretty sure she was approaching self-weaning from my milk. I decided 2 years ago that I would let her decide when to stop nursing, but I felt this sad dread that those moments of our lives would be over soon.

But I digress.

On antibiotic #2 for mastitis, I was so so bloody tired and run down.
Weak, with no patience.
That night I realized all I had done was criticize and basically be a bitch to Baby D all day. I crawled into her bed while she slept so beautifully... so peacefully. I looked at her angelic face and her tiny nostrils flaring, ever so gently, and realized that she doesn't deserve the wrath of my health woes. She didn't ask me to start running, or to lose weight or do anything other than be her mommy. But yet she gets the brunt of my bad mood and short temper when I am once again down and out.

I cried. Like a real little bitch. True sobbing, but the kind a mom does so no one can hear. Like holding a tornado inside of your body. I shook her pillow unintentionally. She roused slightly as I stroked her face and hair. I planted a kiss on her tiny forehead and thought about how she will master this world, that no one can or should keep her down (most of all, ME), that she is going to do incredible things in her lifetime, and I thought of how pure and wonderful and HAPPY she is. And that this would be the last night I put my 2 year old to bed. Maybe the last time my little toddler would nurse had already happened.

I felt sad and scared of the world, yet full of love.

As if sensing my upset, do you know what my fiery little snowflake did, as if on cue?
She dug her finger so far into her nostril that I'm certain she found gold.

AND IT WAS BRILLIANT.
It was what I needed. A reality check. A slap of BE HERE NOW, WOMAN!
And I giggled. Watching her pick her nose in her sleep was just utterly perfect.

It doesn't need to be all about my pre-disposition-to-all-things-depressed-and-extremely-anxious.

It was so cute and fitting.

She rallied up there for a while, then her hand fell back down on the pillow beside my face. Gawd I love her. I left her room with a smile.

I realized that she's going to keep close to me and keep me on my toes, no matter what comes our way. Not much I can do on the health front... I'm trying my best. I just have to remember to keep trying. And remember that she'll be 3, and her place in this world matters far less to her right now than boogers.

And it's kind of wonderful that way.

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1 Billion Rising: Rape Doesn't Work Like That

*Trigger Warning*

In a world where 1 in 3 women will be beaten or raped in their lifetime, a call to action is a must. I do realize that there are female rapists, but for the purpose of this blog I am addressing the male rapist/female victim scenario that is all too common).

I happened upon this short video yesterday and learned about the 1 Billion Rising movement.

Drawing attention to an important issue like that should be commended. However, I can't help but feel rage and disbelief that they could, would and did depict an attempted rape scene as they did.

As I began watching the video, I could feel my body tensing up at the violence on the screen. As both a survivor of assault and rape, I felt the nausea immediately when I saw the man's hand over the woman's mouth as he held her down (among the many other atrocities in the video).

It was sickening, and it happens all too frequently.

The video description reads:

Published on 20 Sep 2012

*Trigger Warning* A film by Eve Ensler and Tony Stroebel.
Please spread far and wide w/this tweet: Rise up on 2-14 to end Violence against Women in a global event!

If you want to watch the video, I've posted the link right here.

My anger stems from the uprising portion of the video. Yes, you read that right.
As women unite around the world, taking a stance against the abuse and assault, there is a projected sense of increased energy; power. STRENGTH.

This is awful. And incredibly misleading. (Source)

It appears that the woman who is being raped frees herself, only when she seems to feel the strength and energy to push harder and be stronger. I watched it again with my husband, to double check, and I thought that perhaps the male becomes unconscious or something, but not clearly defined. He felt it portrayed the same message that I did.

As a survivor, this is what the video tells ME:
- If you want to escape rape you must realize how strong you are and fight back with your power.

READ: Hey, you were raped, guess you didn't fight hard enough/be strong enough/realize you didn't have to be raped, dumbass.

Additionally, I'm pissed off because of the younger kids, teens, and many women who will watch this video, they will watch it once. It may or may not imprint on them, but if it does, what a message to send. What an atrocious message to send.

RAPE IS NOT a matter of strength on the victim's part.
RAPE IS NOT prevented by the victim.
RAPE IS NOT one woman, or many women, or all the women, or all the women in the world's responsibility to stop.

Yes, awareness of this epidemic is necessary. Yes... we, as a united world, men and women need to raise our collective voices to shout at the governing bodies that the sentences and consequences for rapists are not intense enough, that victims' voices need to be heard and respected during reporting, investigation, prosecution, and that society's general silencing of the frequency and seemingly acceptable occurrences are not. Mothers and Fathers need to teach their sons that raping is a disgusting, unacceptable and horrific violation of a woman and her body. Schools need to take it seriously. Every single occurrence. Every single child, girl, teen, woman, man.

BUT,
and I cannot add enough BOLD text or underlining to make this CRYSTAL FRIGGING CLEAR:

RAPE STOPS WITH THE RAPIST. 

I don't give a shit for any "yeah, but..." sentences. Don't imply I should rise above. Don't imply the onus is on me to be stronger. Fiercer. Louder.

If a woman (or man) says NO.... or STOP. Or is too compromised to consent (through intoxication or blackout) (yes, folks, that's also rape).

RAPE STOPS WITH THE RAPIST. 

END OF STORY.

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