tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-215584742024-03-07T15:26:55.365-05:00Her Bad MotherHer Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.comBlogger639125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21558474.post-89046128380437333582009-06-17T12:08:00.005-04:002009-06-17T12:32:29.340-04:00Movin' On UpOh, hey, you hear that? That is THE SOUND OF SILENCE.<br /><br />It's pretty quiet around here, and might be for another day or so. Because? I am - wait for it - moving shop! Finally making the move away from Blogger and onto to more sophisticated blogging platform pastures. Which, I know! SO AWESOME. Also, terrifying.<br /><br />Anyhoo. If you're starved for the pathos and pedantry and total lack of humor that only I can provide, you can amuse yourselves by reading <a href="http://blog.beliefnet.com/theirbadmother/"target="_blank">my other blog</a>. Or by checking out what we're up to over at <a href="http://www.mamapop.com/"target="_blank">MamaPop</a>. Or by puttin' on the beaver over at <a href="http://www.canadamomsblog.com/"target="_blank">Canada Moms Blog</a>. Or by reading whatever it is that you read when you're not reading me. Which, yeah.<br /><br />You better promise that you're coming with me on the move, got that? Otherwise, I will be sad. And we don't need anymore of that, now do we? Right?<br /><br />Good.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJrEhK7lHVQLMaPtPJQmsTp9pS5mkwzNgRR5ZHamKWfG3c67ThY__MTtunamjmyfjOhaK9duqdfyj-hPUBWDJLZuvRLwvAoV-70qNYRMWo9qk5KNfvG2tlOPEPsWkCX5dxxDhUAA/s1600-h/june+09+miscellany+116.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJrEhK7lHVQLMaPtPJQmsTp9pS5mkwzNgRR5ZHamKWfG3c67ThY__MTtunamjmyfjOhaK9duqdfyj-hPUBWDJLZuvRLwvAoV-70qNYRMWo9qk5KNfvG2tlOPEPsWkCX5dxxDhUAA/s400/june+09+miscellany+116.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348334258549495522" border="0" /></a><br />Because nobody likes teh sad.Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21558474.post-62198487991491967882009-06-15T11:41:00.004-04:002009-06-15T13:03:56.692-04:00Peace In A DysonI vacuumed.<br /><br />I didn't know what else to do, so I vacuumed.<br /><br />We knew last night that something wasn't quite right about the bug bite on the side of Emilia's face. It was a little swollen, a little bruised. We debated what to do. It was late, the clinics and pharmacies were closed, and it didn't look that bad. A bad allergic reaction would be pretty immediate, right? It wouldn't be a slow swell, right? I wrung my hands and worried; my husband soothed: <span style="font-style: italic;">we'll check on her in the night. We don't know that it's an allergic reaction. We'll check; she'll be fine.</span><br /><br />We didn't check.<br /><br />When my husband went to rouse her this morning, he found a nearly unrecognizable child, a wee thing with a swollen and misshapen face, her cheek and neck grotesquely bloated, her right eye a purple, bulbous slit. My heart stopped.<br /><br />And then - while my husband gathered clothes and prepared to hustle us all out the door to the hospital - I vacuumed.<br /><br />I told myself, <span style="font-style: italic;">the floor is dirty and that's just not helping things. The floor is dirty and it should be cleaned. Somebody needs to do this. Somebody needs to be on top of these things. Somebody needs to pay attention to these things. </span>I told myself, <span style="font-style: italic;">the floor is dirty, it's dirty</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">just do this, now</span>.<br /><br />Because the floor was dirty. But more because I couldn't look at Emilia without my heart stopping, because I couldn't speak without berating myself, without berating <span style="font-style: italic;">us</span>, for not getting help for her last night, because I all could do was do something, anything, that felt like it might make some minute bit of difference in the universe. Because my little girl was sitting there, clutching her Toady, whimpering a little, asking <span style="font-style: italic;">why is my eye shut, Mommy?</span> and because I knew that if I hugged her again, I would cry.<br /><br />And I didn't want to cry. So I vacuumed. And now my floor is clean.<br /><br />But my cheeks are still streaked with tears.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">---------<br /></div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Emilia is going to be okay. She had a bad allergic reaction to a bug bite, and the good news is that antihistamines are bringing down the swelling and returning her poor face and neck to normal. The bad news is, we don't know what bit her, and so we don't know what she's allergic to.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />And no, I didn't take a picture. I thought about it, once I'd calmed down enough to stop vacuuming. But I didn't. I don't want to remember it. It was horrible. She looked horrible. I'm still sorting through my feelings about that - my heartbreak not only at her pain, but at the fact that her outer beauty had been so distorted - but I do know that I'm not keen to revisit them. I wouldn't have shared the picture, anyway, so.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">So.</span>Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com88tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21558474.post-11255397864317913342009-06-12T11:35:00.007-04:002009-06-12T12:31:13.625-04:00Wonder Girl Rides AgainI've been trying all week to craft a post about my sister and <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2008/10/sings-tune-without-words.html"target="_blank">Tanner</a>, about how they're struggling right now, about how they <a href="http://thebadgrandma.blogspot.com/2009/06/injustice-is-another-word-for-this.html"target="_blank">keep taking blows</a>, about how they keep taking blows but never stop moving forward, never stop pursuing happiness, never stop pursuing life. I wanted to craft a post about how my sister recently made the most difficult decision that a parent could ever possibly make, <a href="http://twitter.com/herbadmother/status/2044064365"target="_blank">the decision to allow Tanner's life to be shortened</a>, probably significantly, so that it might be a better life. But the words just don't come, because I just don't know how she did it, how she found that courage to do what is absolutely certainly the right thing, but also absolutely certainly the hardest thing. And so I don't know how to talk about it, write about it, make sense of it. Not without crying so hard that the tears blur my vision and make my head ache. Not yet, anyway.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">----------<br /></div><br />Today is one of those days when I just love my children so much that my breath catches in my throat and my stomach hurts and tears prick at the corner of my eyes and I just feel all, you know, <span style="font-style: italic;">clenchy</span> and overwhelmed by the feeling, the conviction, that this, <span style="font-style: italic;">this</span> is what people mean when they talk about miracles and wonder.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj924WBir4yZ_0wyepQC8mtibtUcH08RMuiOzjwkHnGIjWO7vQz8PWBEKioHmcejz25gHnPYdmEgDsixFmEufOWfxTLKMSeQzAWN8UHb4_aL8PAr6vHGizQOjCnoBaELPa4r38soQ/s1600-h/june+09+044.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj924WBir4yZ_0wyepQC8mtibtUcH08RMuiOzjwkHnGIjWO7vQz8PWBEKioHmcejz25gHnPYdmEgDsixFmEufOWfxTLKMSeQzAWN8UHb4_aL8PAr6vHGizQOjCnoBaELPa4r38soQ/s400/june+09+044.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346477944739084514" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFDmUf9E0H6podpk3-zsICbTWXvd2Dp2TIb_c1tmzeCOMKZB6wpQLAHTz_lPna-bZe_6PVaRDHqtZkgBTA1h715oTPqpxGvV0goMwU3VS2wZQH9gUJjq7AWPJcpPbl02f-V74GFQ/s1600-h/june+09+039.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFDmUf9E0H6podpk3-zsICbTWXvd2Dp2TIb_c1tmzeCOMKZB6wpQLAHTz_lPna-bZe_6PVaRDHqtZkgBTA1h715oTPqpxGvV0goMwU3VS2wZQH9gUJjq7AWPJcpPbl02f-V74GFQ/s400/june+09+039.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346476950217541186" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPmzw3rLKUX_4_MMXU7nOAfP55IETJWxnAnqtujKDRmfmgwxWzI6lI5sAzYeqDUjJOGHxnDh-S1LfSelgC7Dj8NpOGZB4aXA2_lHrcfdIJDCrckvDCVCA8NJ1JPgEKRTQts_0nRw/s1600-h/june+09+036.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPmzw3rLKUX_4_MMXU7nOAfP55IETJWxnAnqtujKDRmfmgwxWzI6lI5sAzYeqDUjJOGHxnDh-S1LfSelgC7Dj8NpOGZB4aXA2_lHrcfdIJDCrckvDCVCA8NJ1JPgEKRTQts_0nRw/s400/june+09+036.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5346478514890501778" border="0" /></a><br />Because they fly, they really do fly, and they take my heart with them when they soar.Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21558474.post-4412909956974761902009-06-10T12:10:00.007-04:002009-06-10T14:39:24.670-04:00Ecce MaterOkay, look - and I feel called upon to address this because there are some people out there who are not getting it - when <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2009/06/bad-mother-manifesto.html" target="_blank">I call myself a bad mother</a>, I do not mean that I condone the neglect or abuse of children. I do not mean that I neglect or abuse my kids. I do not mean that I or anyone should celebrate these things. I mean, <span style="font-style: italic;">seriously</span>.<br /><br />What I mean is this: I do some things, many things, that would, when held against dominant (mainstream, media) narratives and representations of the Good Mother, appear to be bad. I do some things that are by <span style="font-style: italic;">any</span> measure bad. But I am human, all-too-human, and my inability to be perfect is part of my make-up. And I believe that my quirks and foibles and imperfections as a mother - as a human being - are what make me a wonderfully flawed, perfectly imperfect mother for my children. And I also believe that sharing the stories of my quirks and foibles and imperfections does some small service in encouraging other mothers - other parents - to accept and embrace their own flaws and imperfections, their own quote-unquote badness.<br /><br />Which is to say, by celebrating badness I am not celebrating a race to the bottom of the parenting barrel. I am not suggesting that it is 'cooler' to give your children cookies for breakfast or to let them watch three hours of television or to publicly proclaim your need for Ativan. I'm not trying to conflate cookies-for-breakfast with failing to provide care for your children or use of anti-anxiety medication with drug or alcohol abuse. I'm simply describing my reality, and struggling to accept myself as the wonderfully flawed parent that I am, not <span style="font-style: italic;">despite</span> my flaws, but <span style="font-style: italic;">because</span> of my flaws, because of the total package that I am. And I am calling that package bad because that is what I have been called by some and would be called by others and I want to seize it and claim it and redefine it as my own and apply it to my own particular, quirky brand of flawed wonderfulness. I want to take the power of judgment and labeling away from anyone would use it against me, so that I can say, whenever someone points their finger and whispers, <span style="font-style: italic;">bad, BAD</span>, I can cry out, loudly, <span style="font-style: italic;">I know I am but what are you?</span><br /><br />And I want you to do the same. I don't care what you call it. That's the point, after all: if we all refuse to acknowledge the supremacy of the Good (good with a capital g, good in scare quotes) Mother and the imperative to pursue 'Good' at all costs, then we liberate ourselves to model ourselves however we like, to celebrate ourselves according to whatever measures we choose, and to call ourselves whatever we want.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I</span> choose to call myself Bad. Proudly.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(And then I go steadfastly forward and post a - cleverly edited, but still - </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://blog.beliefnet.com/theirbadmother/2009/06/if-a-child-pees-in-the-forest-does-anybody-care.html" target="_blank">picture of my child peeing. Standing up.</a><span style="font-style: italic;"> In the park. WIN.)</span>Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21558474.post-65327203516287709452009-06-08T10:16:00.008-04:002009-06-08T21:30:04.473-04:00The Bad Mother Manifesto<span style="font-style: italic;">There is a spectre haunting the parenting community - <a href="http://www.thestar.com/familyhealth/behaviouranddevelopment/article/645826" target="_blank">the spectre </a>of <a href="http://jezebel.com/5244857/bad-mother-promises-maternal-crimes-delivers-misdemeanors" target="_blank">the Bad Mothe</a>r...*</span><br /><br />My name is Catherine, and I am a bad mother. I (<a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2007/05/im-not-bad-i-just-blog-that-way.html" target="_blank">mostly</a>) do not have my tongue in my cheek when I say that. I <span style="font-style: italic;">am</span> a Bad Mother.<br /><br />I am a bad mother according to most measurements established by the popular Western understanding of what constitutes a good mother. I use disposable diapers. I let my children watch more television than I'd ever publicly admit. I let them have cookies for breakfast. I let them stay up too late. I don't follow a schedule. I don't go to playgroups. I stopped breastfeeding because I was tired of it. I co-slept with my son. I didn't co-sleep with my daughter. I have been treated for depression. I stopped my treatment for depression. I am entirely too attached to Ativan.<br /><br />I have left my children alone in the bathtub. I have spanked my daughter. I have turned my back on my crying son. I have had <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2008/10/visualize-whirled-peas.html" target="_blank">intrusive thoughts</a>. I drink. I curse. I have put my own needs first. I have thought that <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2005/03/27/fashion/27love.html" target="_blank">I love my husband more than my children</a>. I have had moments of resenting my children. I have thought that motherhood is boring. I <a href="http://blog.beliefnet.com/theirbadmother/" target="_blank">document</a> all of these things and <a href="http://jezebel.com/5102635/what-happens-when-moms-write-memoirs" target="_blank">lay them bare for the world to see</a>. I have <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2008/04/crazy-narcissistic-exploitative-zombie.html" target="_blank">been called an exploitative mother</a>. I have wondered whether that might be true.<br /><br />I have thought that perhaps I am not at all cut out for this motherhood thing.<br /><br />I have thought that I am a bad mother. I <span style="font-style: italic;">know</span> that I am bad mother, in so many of the ways that matter to the people who worry about how and why women should be good mothers, and in most of the ways that don't matter to anyone at all other than me at three o' clock in the morning after a particularly long, ego-smashing day.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">But:</span><br /><br />I reject entirely the idea that I should be a good mother in any manner other than those that matter to me: that I take care of the basic needs of my children, that I love my children well, that I make certain that my children know that they are loved well, that I ensure that a day never passes in which I do not not hug or kiss my children or tell them that I love them, and that I ensure that a day never passes in which they - and I - laugh out loud at least once.<br /><br />I reject entirely the idea that there can be any community consensus about what - beyond the provision of love and care - constitutes a good mother. I reject entirely the idea that <a href="http://blog.beliefnet.com/theirbadmother/2009/06/jon-kate-plus-the-rest-of-us.html" target="_blank">we can or should judge each other as mothers</a>, beyond the obvious and most basic standards of care, and even then, I reject entirely the idea that any one of us is so perfect that she could throw the first stone without hesitation.<br /><br />I reject entirely the idea that mothers should worry about what it means to be a good mother in any respect beyond loving and protecting and providing for their children.<br /><br />I reject entirely the idea I should worry, and yet worry I do. I worry because everywhere I look, at every turn, at every corner, in every magazine and on every television show and in every discussion, everywhere, about the <span style="font-style: italic;">what-why-how</span> of motherhood, is the Good Mother.<br /><br />The Good Mother - the idea of the Good Mother, the theoretical and aesthetic model of what it means to mother well - is the true spectre, the spectre that has haunted mothers since God first smacked our hands for being too graspy and ejected us from the Garden and hollered at us to go forward and to give birth in pain and alone and to mother in anxiety and alone and to basically just <span style="font-style: italic;">angst out</span> for every second of our lives. The idea of the Good Mother has kept us in our place, has kept us cowering, alone, behind the veil; our important work - our critically important work - kept hidden behind the walls of the household; our lives and our stories and our history kept secret, kept quiet, because Good Mothers are private, are modest, are <a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/pudicus#Latin" target="_blank"><span style="font-style: italic;">pudicae</span></a>, because Good Mothers tell no tales. Devoted Good Mothers listen only to community edicts about what the Good Mother looks like and then devote themselves, silently, to the work of emulating the Good Mother. They do not share their failures. They do not share their struggles. They do not tell stories about the dark and the difficulty and the anxiety and the impossibility of keeping one's cool in the dead of night when the baby is shrieking and the toddler is crying and one hasn't slept in weeks. They do not talk about shutting the door and ignoring the cries. They do not talk about intrusive thoughts. They do not talk about repeating the words <span style="font-style: italic;">fuck I hate this fuck I hate this</span> like so many Hail Marys, like a meditation upon frustration, like a mantra of failure. They do not talk about these things, out loud.<br /><br />They keep their silence, and look to the Good Mother, hoping that she will provide guidance, hoping that in her lays the way of all maternal truth and happiness. They look in vain.<br /><br />The Good Mother is everywhere, all at once, and she looks like everything, and nothing. She stays at home; she goes to work. She attachment-parents; she's Babywise. She home-schools; she Montessoris. She vaccinates; she doesn't vaccinate. She follows a schedule; she lets her kids run free-range. She co-sleeps; she wouldn't dare co-sleep. She would never spank; she's a strict disciplinarian. She's an Alpha Mom; she's a Slacker Mom; she's a Hipster Mom; she's a Christian Mom; she's a Hipster-Christian-Alpha Mom who slacks off in the summers. She's Everymom; She's NoMom. She brooks no disagreement: if you argue with her, you start a Mommy War. But the wars are futile and pointless because the combatants are all fighting on the same side, <span style="font-style: italic;">her</span> side, which is <span style="font-style: italic;">no</span> side, and in the end we just batter each other until we are dumb and we give up and retire to our camps, bloody and bruised and determined to just keep it to ourselves next time and so it ends as it always does, in silence, with none of us saying what we really want to say, what we really need to say, which is this: <span style="font-style: italic;">who the fuck cares</span>?<br /><br />Who is anybody to tell us whether we are good mothers? Who the fuck knows what a good mother is anyway? And why can't we say this out loud, why can't we just live our motherhood out loud and proclaim our diversity to ourselves and to each other and to the world and declare the idea of the Good Mother - the all-encompassing, do-no-wrong, one-size-fits-all perfect model of the Good Mother, the <span style="font-style: italic;">Uber</span>-Mom who has been witnessed by none of us - dead? We do not need her, we don't, we really don't.<br /><br />The only persons who can measure our mother-worthiness are our children, and even they are unreliable.<br /><br />All that we have, then, is this: the measure of our hearts and the measure of our eyes and our ears and our good sense. Do we love our children as best we can? Do we keep them, as best we can, healthy in mind and body? Do we make sure that they laugh? Do they smile in our presence?<br /><br />That is enough. That must be enough. And if that is not good enough - if there remain those who would insist that there is more to mothering well, that I must do more, that we must do more, that the community must do more to police, to enforce, to uphold the rule of the Good Mother - then, well, I shall remain - loudly, proudly, publicly - Bad.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Are you a Bad Mother? Which is to ask -</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> regardless of whether or not you identify with, or struggle with, the idea of being 'Bad'</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> - are you a regular old ordinary flawed-but-awesome REAL mom? Are you just tired of the pressure to be 'Good'? Then join me. We'll unite and take over.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">*(with apologies to <a href="http://www.anu.edu.au/polsci/marx/classics/manifesto.html" target="_blank">Karl Marx</a>, and, parenthetically, to Friedrich Nietzsche and Niccolo Machiavelli, all of whom would doubtless regard my appropriation of their modes of argument for the purposes of defending the liberation of mothers from old modes and orders of virtue as terribly, terribly amusing and, I would hope, somewhat charming, in a contrary sort of way.) </span>Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com206tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21558474.post-8526254633867387672009-06-05T08:00:00.004-04:002009-06-05T11:12:44.855-04:00And Then There Was That Time He Played With The Balls...From Emilia's preschool progress report: <span style="font-style: italic;">We very much enjoy Emilia's storytelling, especially the stories she tells when she first gets to school in the mornings.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">---------<br /></div><br />"Guess what everybody, <span style="font-style: italic;">guess what!"</span> She raced into the main play area and confronted two of her teachers. They knelt down, and nodded expectantly. <span style="font-style: italic;">What is it, Emilia? What?</span><br /><br />"My Daddy has" - she took a deep breath - "NEW NUTS."<br /><br />For a moment, the silence was deafening.<br /><br />And then she opened her hand to reveal two almonds.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYafxsGpCytsnsOAPLYxvhGp6sTHGF1uU0i9MDUpkjhxpkHdJZFaPdLgBCMKhXCZG-KUycEozZuqYULGkGkLz2VCNFDUmqoFag6pNfFqLkpVaSa8lsUcBApyFkLFDdUR3iliXDRw/s1600-h/tanis+weekend+010.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYafxsGpCytsnsOAPLYxvhGp6sTHGF1uU0i9MDUpkjhxpkHdJZFaPdLgBCMKhXCZG-KUycEozZuqYULGkGkLz2VCNFDUmqoFag6pNfFqLkpVaSa8lsUcBApyFkLFDdUR3iliXDRw/s400/tanis+weekend+010.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343826012584385202" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Not shown: nuts. The other kind.</span></span><br /><br />-----------<br /></div><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Once you've finished smiling - and I hope that that made you smile - go read </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://thebadgrandma.blogspot.com/2009/06/injustice-is-another-word-for-this.html" target="_blank">this</a><span style="font-style: italic;">. My mom is wringing her heart out - </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://thebadgrandma.blogspot.com/2009/06/injustice-is-another-word-for-this.html" target="_blank">and yelling and smashing things</a><span style="font-style: italic;"> - over Tanner and my sister and the general suckage of life. She could use some support.<br /><br />(I'm sorry that I keep closing comments. It's just, some days I'm not up for talk. And others, I'd rather direct talk where it's needed more. Like at the post I linked to above. Because I'm not ready to talk about it yet, but my mom is, and it needs to be talked about, and, well, you know. Please and thank you.)<br /><br /><br /></span>Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21558474.post-76590572969607752092009-06-04T00:01:00.000-04:002009-06-04T00:01:01.724-04:00Walk This WayAnd so your baby springs to his feet and - <span style="font-style: italic;">oops, wait! down? no! up! go!</span> - toddles toward the flowers - <span style="font-style: italic;">wait! stop! flowers! ooh!</span> - and then - <span style="font-style: italic;">hey! up!</span> - toward you toward you toward you - <span style="font-style: italic;">come here baby!</span> - and your heart swells as he pitches forward, all leg-torque and flushed cheeks, your big precious boy using all the power of his newfound mobility to race to you, to fling his little self...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dw9cRoLLZbKSOoQuwTlyUn-ZgWdC0PlhrLqPAvxfQy_IryCcULtGi_5eSu8yOb6OQVL0iqPNIhMUpw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /></div><br />... right past you, <span style="font-style: italic;">right past you</span>, and then, suddenly - <span style="font-style: italic;">ooh, look, ball!</span> - down he goes. And gets up again, and toddles away, not looking back.<br /><br />And you are torn between two feelings: a fierce pride in your wee determined lad, who is growing so fast, so very fast, and who will no doubt speed - away from you, alone, strong - into a brilliant future, and, also, a terrible, guilty sadness over the fact that, yes, he is growing so fast, so very fast, and he will one day - too soon - speed away from you. And not look back.<br /><br />And so you settle on a third feeling, another <span style="font-style: italic;">(is it? yes, it is</span>) shameful feeling: a tiny bit of satisfaction that he stumbles, that he will continue to stumble, now and again, as he reaches for the flowers, the ball, the sky. That he needs you. That he will need you for a very long time.<br /><br />Not forever, but long enough.<br /><br />(Is it so wrong to want him to slow down? To want to not let go of his hand?)Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com44tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21558474.post-12875238162373286492009-06-02T12:58:00.007-04:002009-06-02T14:30:31.523-04:00Why Don't You Leave Your Name And Your Number And I'll Get Back To You?This, for those of you following at home, is called <span style="font-style: italic;">phoning it in</span>.<br /><br />I am so exhausted from a weekend visiting in-laws - during which Emilia took up <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2009/06/come-on-feel-noize.html" target="_blank">drumming</a> and basketball and other activities more ordinarily associated with teenage boys than preschool girls - and I think that I'm coming down with something and, also, probably suffering from an iron-deficiency and so I'm having real trouble summoning the creative energies to say anything profound or funny or even remotely interesting.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_566xlra27Uig1PcDWX_BQcCb_aNJZujCBR-_KETspXBjN3501IIwNso1vtJWEHjHoPI_54migE50c_IxxacITMc6g1Y6yUPAlZaOWs5y71TUUY-R0ZyaRU-2yutXDBwcky86HQ/s1600-h/may-fin+157.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_566xlra27Uig1PcDWX_BQcCb_aNJZujCBR-_KETspXBjN3501IIwNso1vtJWEHjHoPI_54migE50c_IxxacITMc6g1Y6yUPAlZaOWs5y71TUUY-R0ZyaRU-2yutXDBwcky86HQ/s320/may-fin+157.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342795333343029426" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Shown: Hoodlum, Preschool Female v.2.0</span><br /></span></div><br />So I am, for today, just going to have to direct you elsewhere:<br /><br />1) I'm not sure, but I think that whoever is writing <a href="http://thelittlecriminal.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">this blog</a> knows my kid. Hang on: maybe it <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> my kid. Whichever one of you taught her how to blog, you're fired.<br /><br />2) <a href="http://blog.beliefnet.com/theirbadmother/2009/06/sticks-stones-may-break-bones-but-words-can-raise-a-shotgun.html" target="_blank">This is me wringing my hands about Bill O'Reilly</a>. Look how much fun I'm having! My joy is almost palpable. NOT.<br /><br />3) You know how you're always telling me that I never update you on stuff, like how is my <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2008/08/zachary.html" target="_blank">nephew Zachary</a>, the one who was so deathly ill last fall? Well, I don't need to, because <a href="http://thebadgrandma.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">my mother</a> is on top of that. You'll be interested - or not - to know that <a href="http://thebadgrandma.blogspot.com/2009/05/lets-talk-about-grandchildren-and-sex.html" target="_blank">he's well enough to be having <span style="font-style: italic;">teh sex</span></a>. I'm going to pretend that I didn't just write that.<br /><br />3) I didn't write <a href="http://mom-101.blogspot.com/2009/05/mommybloggings-part-deux-marketers-are.html" target="_blank">this</a>, but I wish that I had.<br /><br />4) <a href="http://www.mamapop.com/mamapop/2009/05/friday-eye-candy-thursday-edition-now-with-more-boob.html" target="_blank">Boobs</a>.<br /><br />That's all that I've got. Sorry.Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21558474.post-52739894107360888832009-06-01T09:26:00.009-04:002009-06-01T10:22:32.953-04:00Come On Feel The Noize<div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">The only difference between these two musical performances, so far as I can tell, is that in only one does anyone burst into flame.<br /></div><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzu3gvPuz4Krg7U4cvm7vTRJp-MHpI10XJwuuhgU1Je9-Ye3WdvMNBGTGR1NrOTatzh38QceWDu3EQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Y8aGlOj2VFo&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Y8aGlOj2VFo&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Which is good, because I don't, as a rule, keep fire extinguishers in the diaper bag.<br /></div><br /></div>Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21558474.post-44225227789553545702009-05-28T09:55:00.003-04:002009-05-28T11:14:46.213-04:00Requiem For A BoobWhen I was a kid, <a href="http://thebadgrandma.blogspot.com/"target="_blank">my mom</a> used to joke about her boobs. "They're tube socks!" she'd hoot. "I have to roll them up to get them in my bra."<br /><br />I would cringe and recoil. "<span style="font-style: italic;">Mom</span>," I'd hiss. "You're embarrassing me."<br /><br />"Why are you so red, honey?"<br /><br />"Because you're embarrassing me."<br /><br />"I'm just talking about tube socks."<br /><br />"You're talking about your boobs."<br /><br />"Sweetie, my boobs are tube socks because I bore and birthed you and your sister, so if hearing about it embarrasses you, well, tough."<br /><br />Then she'd cross her eyes and stick out her tongue at me. I'd run to my room at that point and discreetly peer down the front of my shirt and wonder whether I'd ever have any kind boobs, let alone the tube sock kind. Although I'd have preferred <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> the tube sock kind, at that point in my adolescence I'd have been happy with just about anything.<br /><br />Ah, the deluded innocence of youth.<br /><br />I grew boobs, eventually. They were never all that impressive - I was always skinny, with the type of cleavage that, in nature, attends skinny bodies - but they were there, and they were kind of cute. Perky. The kind of breasts that you never called tits or gazongas or hooters or even just boobs. You referred to them to them in the diminutive - <span style="font-style: italic;">boobies</span> - or in the unsexed abstract - <span style="font-style: italic;">chest</span>. So it was that when I got pregnant and, later, began lactating and those puppies grew - like, seriously, epically grew, like frightened puffer fish - I was both alarmed and thrilled. I had hooters. I had gazongas. I had <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2006/07/live-from-blogher-its-friday-morning.html" target="_blank">BOOBS</a>.<br /><br />For a few uncomfortable but nonetheless thrilling years, I had a rack, and it was spectacular.<br /><br />And now it's gone.<br /><br />Gone, disappeared, deflated, defunct. It's as if, after watching me <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2009/04/needful-things.html" target="_blank">wean Jasper</a> and my husband get his parts snipped, Nature herself gave my body the once-over and said <span style="font-style: italic;">well, you won't be needing those any more</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">will you?</span> and unceremoniously removed them from my person.<br /><br />They're gone now, and I miss them. I miss them, not only because they really were kind of epic - and what girl doesn't fantasize, occasionally, secretly, about what it would be like to have epic boobs? - but because Nature, in all of her douchey wisdom, did not restore my chest to its modest but nonetheless entirely presentable profile. Nature, being the stone-cold bitch-goddess that she is (the very same one who gave us menstrual cycles and the pain of childbirth and the indignity of random chin hairs), turned my boobs into tube socks. <span style="font-style: italic;">Just like my mother's</span>.<br /><br />Except smaller. <span style="font-style: italic;">Small</span> tube socks. The tube socks of an adolescent boy with irregularly-sized feet. Because, yes, one is actually - <span style="font-style: italic;">oh, god</span> - smaller than the other.<br /><br />Which is why, when I found myself, yesterday, in the fitting room of the lingerie department, desperately trying to find a bra into which my breasts would not just disappear like a pathetic wad of crumpled tissue, I lasted all of three minutes before bursting into tears.<br /><br />It's not that I want - what are the kids calling it these days? - a bangin' bod. I'd be happy with a bod that just pinged a little. I just want to not to not look in the mirror and cringe. Which I know goes against <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2009/03/what-does-body-good.html" target="_blank">everything that I said a few months ago</a>, but a few months ago <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2009/03/truthiness-in-muffin-top-portraiture.html" target="_blank">I had boobs</a>. Muffin-tops and extra ass-padding are one thing when you have the upper curves to balance everything out. They're quite another when your upper body looks like a deflated pool toy.<br /><br />I'm straining to accept this new incarnation of me, to learn to love it as I've learned to love all the other incarnations. But I am finding, now, as summer approaches and I wrap my head and heart around the fact (is it fact? is it? I am still struggling with this) that I will have no more children, that I am still, in my way, vain, and that I want my beauty back. Maybe not the same beauty, the same body, the same sweet boobs of youth, but something, anything, that makes me swell with just a little bit of pride when I look in the mirror.<br /><br />Or maybe just a tit-inflater. Anybody got one of those?Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com94tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21558474.post-55993106111942267972009-05-26T13:32:00.008-04:002009-05-26T15:12:27.666-04:00Humanity I Love YouThe world, sometimes, is an ugly place. A <span style="font-style: italic;">spectacularly</span> ugly place. A place that is made all the uglier for the fact that its ugliness creeps in at the edges, smothering the beauty in its path. When you look at it through dreamy or sleepy eyes - rose-colored glasses, I think is the term - it seems unparalleled in beauty - a baby's smile, peonies in first bloom, a new Buffy The Vampire Slayer movie - until you blink and rub your eyes and look more closely and realize that in the shadows lurks such ugliness as you have never imagined. And suddenly the baby's smile fades, and the peonies wither, and the Buffy movie turns out to be <a href="http://www.mamapop.com/mamapop/2009/05/heresy-a-whedonless-buffy.html" target="_blank">a cinematic crime of such epic proportions</a> to prevent you from ever seeing a movie again.<br /><br />It's the kind of ugliness, as I said, that smothers and warps beauty, turning the world ugly for no reason other than proclaim the victory of ugliness. So it is, for example, that people proclaim that an image of beauty and hope - an image of a small child nursing her infant doll - <a href="http://www.salon.com/mwt/broadsheet/feature/2009/05/22/breastfeeding_poster/" target="_blank">is something sordid</a>, in order to assert their belief that nursing is ugly and that bodies are ugly and that any practice of nurture that does not accord with their limited view of what constitutes love and nurture is ugly. So it is, for example, that people <a href="http://politics.theatlantic.com/2009/05/prop_8_upheld.php" target="_blank">proclaim that the marriage of two people who love each other and want to love and care for each other for the entirety of their lives is a deviation</a>, simply because the people who want to marry are not of different sex, in order to assert their belief that love is ugly and that sex is ugly if these do not accord with their limited view of the character and purpose of love and sex. And so by making these assertions, they drag in the cold specters of prurience and judgment and demand that we view these unarguably beautiful things - playful joy being derived from an act of nurture, the determination of two hearts to be joined in committed love - through a chilly hateful fog. Everything takes on the cast of ugliness through such a fog. Everything.<br /><br />Such a fog creates hate where none existed before, where none should have existed before. I hate those who would make me second-guess <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2008/08/you-got-problem-with-my-boobies-punk.html" target="_blank">a beautiful photograph of my daughter</a>, who would force me to defend encouraging her in something - indulging the impulse to play at motherhood, to play at nurture, to teach herself the practices of love and care - that should require no defense, none at all. I hate those who would compel me to shake my fists at <a href="http://politics.theatlantic.com/2009/05/prop_8_upheld.php" target="_blank">the state of California</a> and shout words like <span style="font-style: italic;">evil</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">stupid</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">unfair</span>, who would drag me into the ring to defend, again, something that should be beyond defense, something that should just be received as a given blessing - more love in the world, more hearts bound to other hearts, more hearts in exulting in the joy of sharing a life.<br /><br />There is nothing sexual about a child pretending to nurse. There is nothing sordid about two men or two women loving each other. That I even have to draw together in a written breath the words <span style="font-style: italic;">sexual-child-nurse</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">sordid-two-men-two-women-loving</span> is ugly and wrong because it just perpetuates the ugliness, it just gives it air to breathe, it just acknowledges that it is there and that fills me with anger, so much anger, and so the cycle of ugliness grinds on.<br /><br />So I am choosing, now, to refuse the ugliness. I am not going to argue or rant or defend. Beauty needs no defense. It just is. And I am going to celebrate it.<br /><br /><a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2008/08/you-got-problem-with-my-boobies-punk.html" target="_blank">This is beauty</a>:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhRghTRAAQORhXVYQnYQFax5xj8DBOQ3aCyZPmQdDwKR9iyTodQ39jrowgu-_mKfvr5yZkmZZUrN2WTPaWk5TctbQJRrYgMs3dpj6Um-BzvzIfl11DSaicLIHkqzlqKz4A1TVlOw/s1600-h/booby-budge+001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhRghTRAAQORhXVYQnYQFax5xj8DBOQ3aCyZPmQdDwKR9iyTodQ39jrowgu-_mKfvr5yZkmZZUrN2WTPaWk5TctbQJRrYgMs3dpj6Um-BzvzIfl11DSaicLIHkqzlqKz4A1TVlOw/s400/booby-budge+001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340200544669318498" border="0" /></a><br />Let's celebrate it. Maybe, by celebrating it, we can chase the ugliness back into the shadows.<br /><br />Teach your child to nurse a dolly. Tell your child that Barbie can fall in love with Barbie and that Ken can fall in love with Ken. Tell them that love - good love, strong love, love that doesn't hurt - is never ugly. Tell them, teach them, that caring for other beings, is always beautiful, no matter what it looks like. Tell them to fight ugliness by celebrating beauty. And you do the same.<br /><br />Let's all do the same.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >(<a href="http://tspace.library.utoronto.ca/html/1807/4350/poem605.html" target="_blank">Humanity i love you</a> because you<br />are perpetually putting the secret of<br />life in your pants and forgetting<br />it's there and sitting down<br /><br />on it)</span><br /><br />Please.Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com89tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21558474.post-13890101868344708722009-05-25T10:41:00.009-04:002009-05-25T14:59:02.973-04:00One Kiss Breaches A Distance"Hello, sweet girl," <a href="http://www.theredneckmommy.com/">she</a> said, swooping Emilia into her arms. "I've waited a very long time to meet you."<br /><br />"To meet <span style="font-style: italic;">me</span>?"<br /><br />"Yes, you. I've known you your whole life, and now I finally get to meet you. And give you kisses." And with that she buried her face in Emilia's neck and gave her big, sloppy, raspberry kisses and Emilia giggled and squealed and my heart squeezed and I thought, <span style="font-style: italic;">how is it possible that these are the first kisses they've shared?</span><br /><br />She's known Emilia since Emilia was only a few months old. And I've known - and loved - her children since they were small. We've been friends since we first found each other - found each other in this odd community - over three years ago, since I first found her and her secret place of mourning and saw <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2008/10/sings-tune-without-words.html">my family's future</a> there and saw in her, amazing <span style="font-style: italic;">her</span>, the spirit of grace and love and hope and laughter and demanded - <span style="font-style: italic;">demanded</span> - that we be friends. <span style="font-style: italic;">You will love me</span>, I told her. And she did, and I did, and it was good. (<span style="font-style: italic;">She will tell this differently. She will tell you that </span>she<span style="font-style: italic;"> found </span>me<span style="font-style: italic;">, and that </span>she<span style="font-style: italic;"> demanded friendship of </span>me<span style="font-style: italic;"> and that </span>she<span style="font-style: italic;"> forced her love on </span>me<span style="font-style: italic;">. It doesn't matter.) (But I </span>did<span style="font-style: italic;"> find her first.</span>)<br /><br />I have loved her a long time, and she has loved me. But she had never met Emilia.<br /><br />The wrongness of this is difficult to put into words. It's a kind of fundamental wrongness, a kind of <span style="font-style: italic;">wrongness-of-the-soul</span>, the kind that puts the universe off-kilter, the kind that makes you wake up in the middle of the night feeling that you've lost something or are missing something but can't name it, no matter how desperately you grope the shadowed corners of your heart. It's the wrongness of lack, of absence. It's the wrongness that comes with not being able to share all of your joy with the people you love. It's the wrongness that comes with not being able to keep and hold all of that love together, close.<br /><br />There are so many varieties of this wrongness. There's the wrongness of Emilia and Jasper not being able to share <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2008/10/sings-tune-without-words.html">enough of Tanner's brief life</a>. There's the wrongness of them having long distance relationships with their grandparents. And then, too, there's this: the wrongness of the distance of friends, of heart-friends who know them and love them because they know and love me, and the wrongness of my own distance and my children's distance from the families of heart-friends. It's a wrongness that weighs heavily, sometimes, on the soul, because it imposes a kind of partiality on love, because it prevents that love from being experienced to the fullest. Or to be less pedantic about it: it's wrong that I'm missing out on such important parts of the lives of some of my dearest friends and they mine and it sometimes makes me sad.<br /><br />The Internet transcends time and space and allows us to frolic together in the code and light, but it does not replace time and space and real, wet raspberry kisses. It doesn't. It just doesn't.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPNhL9ORaV3dsjBDe0Y6l9NHgGfb2rbj-9a4EzaM9Gvvv_KGn3SY8w-fQILiPLrITdyPYwwI18nCmsN44mb2HtU66QyRVF4IkL25E9K9myjHcsfMZdpsuqu9tFb6yVk-Uxisjhdw/s1600-h/tanis+weekend+016.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPNhL9ORaV3dsjBDe0Y6l9NHgGfb2rbj-9a4EzaM9Gvvv_KGn3SY8w-fQILiPLrITdyPYwwI18nCmsN44mb2HtU66QyRVF4IkL25E9K9myjHcsfMZdpsuqu9tFb6yVk-Uxisjhdw/s400/tanis+weekend+016.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339804183882556290" border="0" /></a><br />So we had Auntie Tanis for a while this weekend and some of the gaps in our hearts were filled. Oveflowingly filled. But abundance sometimes makes one feel more keenly the lack, and so this morning, when Emilia said <span style="font-style: italic;">where is she I miss her when is she coming back</span>, I felt the thud in my heart resound and vibrate, thrumming through the empty parts, and I knew that today I would miss her more than ever, that I would miss <span style="font-style: italic;">all</span> of my heart-friends more than ever, and that I would probably sit in the corner of my garden and pout and whine and maybe shake my fists at the gods a time or two.<br /><br />Which is exactly what I am doing now. That, and plotting an Epic Heart Friend Tour Of Love Road Trip. First stop: Redneckville, Alberta.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ_4udlxywqJ1ihHwIx-NZRlFxtmAS59jXEzJtlK6rmntPwrrtYoYD2vIuysePCosE2gm54WAqKOcfB-6kEl9flR73h5NwUuOj2m2JjGLizijrJFC_zM-F3r1j19eqcPhIdzvnBQ/s1600-h/tanis+weekend+040.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ_4udlxywqJ1ihHwIx-NZRlFxtmAS59jXEzJtlK6rmntPwrrtYoYD2vIuysePCosE2gm54WAqKOcfB-6kEl9flR73h5NwUuOj2m2JjGLizijrJFC_zM-F3r1j19eqcPhIdzvnBQ/s400/tanis+weekend+040.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339805318220212850" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I hope you're waiting, baby.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">J-Man and Sausage Girl and Toady are a-comin'</span>.Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21558474.post-66706851573838775352009-05-22T08:57:00.006-04:002009-05-22T09:36:28.825-04:00After The Teacups<a href="http://blog.beliefnet.com/theirbadmother/2009/05/they-say-its-your-birthday-1.html" target="_blank">Yesterday was my birthday</a>. I have very little reflective to say about that because, you know, anything that I might say would probably have something to with growing old (<span style="font-style: italic;">I grow old, I grow old</span>) and not getting enough cake. And that would just sound pinched and <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2009/05/no-money-changes-everything.html" target="_blank">ungrateful and unhappy</a>, which is not how it is, not how it is at all.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic-9yn6ueEYVLzWuRQVEwfZlHWRV0GFZdq7K2uOv0PhS3r-xc2Dum5-rchCaPcjeShxJ027oZnQCN_2D2gF6wtegkDwWSN33jHzMHlD7m9Z58U15VYSd4n5O8IUsfwRhiacAvdow/s1600-h/may+09+149.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic-9yn6ueEYVLzWuRQVEwfZlHWRV0GFZdq7K2uOv0PhS3r-xc2Dum5-rchCaPcjeShxJ027oZnQCN_2D2gF6wtegkDwWSN33jHzMHlD7m9Z58U15VYSd4n5O8IUsfwRhiacAvdow/s320/may+09+149.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338638851987609922" border="0" /></a><br />Not how it is at all.<br /><br />So I will hold my words for now, for today, and just enjoy the sunshine.Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21558474.post-27199555028067949782009-05-20T10:08:00.006-04:002009-05-22T10:00:26.036-04:00(No) Money Changes EverythingI've written about <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2009/03/abortion-means-never-having-to-say.html" target="_blank">abortion</a> and depression and my relationship with my psychiatrist. I've written about <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2008/07/mary-shelley-had-no-idea.html" target="_blank">perineal tears</a> and my boobs and <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2009/03/they-shoot-wet-nurses-dont-they.html" target="_blank">nursing another woman's child</a>. I've written about pretty much every uncomfortable thing that there is to write about, and yet it is this post that I don't know how to begin. It is <span style="font-style: italic;">this</span> post that I am reluctant to write. It is this post that will, I know, make me cringe in shame.<br /><br />But I'm still going to write it. Because I need to say it - write it - out loud. I need to <span style="font-style: italic;">no</span>t be ashamed, and confessing shame is the only means I know to fighting shame. So.<br /><br />We are - my family is - struggling financially. I know; who <span style="font-style: italic;">isn't</span>? There's a recession going on. Everybody is feeling the pinch. Everybody is clucking about how tight things are, how precarious things seem, how challenging it all is. Everybody is worried. But that doesn't make it any less embarrassing for me to admit that <span style="font-style: italic;">I</span> am worried. I <span style="font-style: italic;">am</span> worried. And a little bit ashamed. Because aren't my husband and I supposed to be grown-ups? Aren't we supposed to ensure that everything is always okay? Aren't we supposed to be able to protect our family from the dark forces of fear and anxiety and indebtedness? Aren't we supposed to be able to always, and under any circumstances, provide?<br /><br />The downturn in the economy has compromised my husband's industry, an industry in which he works freelance, and in which he has, historically, done very well. <span style="font-style: italic;">Historically.</span> He hasn't worked in well over a month. I wring a modest living out of writing - more than I did teaching political philosophy as a sessional lecturer - but it's not enough to support us. Not nearly enough. And so we scramble, and we worry, and we fret about how to explain things to Emilia, who does not understand why we cannot go to her favorite restaurant for dinner, why we cannot take a trip across the country to visit <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2008/10/sings-tune-without-words.html"target="_blank">Tanner</a>, why we have begun to sell things. We tell her, <span style="font-style: italic;">dinner is nicer at home, we'll go visit Tanner soon, it's fun to sell things!</span><br /><br />And then she asks, <span style="font-style: italic;">so will we sell more of our things tomorrow? And, will you sell my treehouse? Because I like my treehouse, and I don't want you to sell it</span>. And my heart breaks. Because I don't want her to worry. I don't know how to talk about this without causing her to worry. I am ashamed that we have to worry. I ashamed that I don't know how to handle this.<br /><br />I know that we'll be fine, in the long run. We <span style="font-style: italic;">will</span> be fine. My husband is very good at what he does, and although his industry might need - does need - to evolve and adapt, it won't die. Even if it did - even if the work just ran out - there'd be something else to do. There's always something else to do. And I am - all evidence to the contrary aside - not without skills. We'll manage, whatever that looks like. And whatever that looks like will be good, because we'll always have each other. Even if we're living in a trailer in the woods - which, granted, is a lot less likely now that we've had to sell our trailer in the woods - we'll be fine, because we'll have each other. Which sounds unbearably trite, I know, but it's nonetheless true for its triteness. <span style="font-style: italic;">We'll have each other</span>.<br /><br />But that's still hard to explain to a three-year old. Why we can't, right now, have extras. Why we need to be content with 'each other.' Why we need to just make do, and to find some joy in that. Why we insist that <span style="font-style: italic;">this is good, this is fine, this is fun</span>, when the worry is plainly written on our faces.<br /><br />I see the confusion in her face, and I'm ashamed. Ashamed that I can't explain it better. Ashamed that I set her up for this, by not working hard enough to let her know that her world of plenty should never be taken for granted. Ashamed that I took that world of plenty for granted. Ashamed that I am ashamed.<br /><br />Which is, as I said, why I needed to say it out loud. Because maybe, maybe, if I can fight the shame, I can fight the worry, and if I can fight the worry, I can fight the confusion. For her. For us. So that it will, it truly will, all be okay.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXbD-V87zpSFJENB7hJgDgkQNuZTIKrHZ0XSbWnAfQU7YWEgQi_fOdj3HXO1mvXz8bnZJvHEm2wP5JIUFB97mxA8sHT1eLarFyjq1qt6PZogdpwq1CQE03EhrAwnOQrvmA756TYA/s1600-h/more+spring+09+159.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXbD-V87zpSFJENB7hJgDgkQNuZTIKrHZ0XSbWnAfQU7YWEgQi_fOdj3HXO1mvXz8bnZJvHEm2wP5JIUFB97mxA8sHT1eLarFyjq1qt6PZogdpwq1CQE03EhrAwnOQrvmA756TYA/s320/more+spring+09+159.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337933701788310226" border="0" /></a><br />So that I can say that, and mean it. For her.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Here is where I say, I so need commiseration. </span>We<span style="font-style: italic;"> need commiseration. Will you share your stories, or your advice? I was part of a call with <a href="http://www.cbsnews.com/blogs/2009/05/15/couricandco/entry5017882.shtml" target="_blank">Katie Couric</a> yesterday, via the Silicon Valley Moms Group - of which <a href="http://www.canadamomsblog.com/" target="_blank">Canada Moms Blog</a> is a part - on the topic of children and the recession, and all I could think, throughout the call, was how it was easy for me to think abstractly about the recession, and talk about how to help the less fortunate, etc, etc, but that I was unwilling - wholly and shamefacedly unwilling - to talk about my own experience, and my own fear. Which meant, of course, that I had to suck it up and blog it, and it was - is - every bit as painful as I thought it would be. Anyone care to throw in her voice with mine, make it feel a little less scary?</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Or just, you know, tell me that I should be grateful to have a roof over my head and stop whining?</span>Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com172tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21558474.post-53111212377191851842009-05-18T00:01:00.001-04:002009-05-18T00:01:00.650-04:00To Jasper, On His First BirthdayHow, my love, did we get from here...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg61FAuIO779B2PDgC1cyjL6D1pMtMKK1xsE6SD9Ac8p2QLoswZ6hZv7gvS3POkVNQfmXjQPsNyOqh3gmDIsBgoq-0vh-sIotbinOGfYl7X-9dYrTfdgI7GGvCIK63VaDlWaF5YpA/s1600-h/jasper-21-days.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg61FAuIO779B2PDgC1cyjL6D1pMtMKK1xsE6SD9Ac8p2QLoswZ6hZv7gvS3POkVNQfmXjQPsNyOqh3gmDIsBgoq-0vh-sIotbinOGfYl7X-9dYrTfdgI7GGvCIK63VaDlWaF5YpA/s400/jasper-21-days.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336986945831262850" border="0" /></a><br />... to here?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOj4m09O62bEv1suxQJLaHCcdDQsRFcSars8VN5KNNCqAblCTHGcWNoNJfj2BnhoDNs_nJ3LSISXGFDTgli3-8k2LOah1jrjnY_kkm6zs-ZtyJAIAQMynKR9boQfbm-5XaoOqhWQ/s1600-h/mother's+day+etc+111.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOj4m09O62bEv1suxQJLaHCcdDQsRFcSars8VN5KNNCqAblCTHGcWNoNJfj2BnhoDNs_nJ3LSISXGFDTgli3-8k2LOah1jrjnY_kkm6zs-ZtyJAIAQMynKR9boQfbm-5XaoOqhWQ/s400/mother's+day+etc+111.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5336987394942245474" border="0" /></a><br />It is not possible that it has only been <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2008/05/birth-day.html"target="_blank">one year</a>. It feels as though you have been in my heart forever, my dirty-faced little monkey boy, my chunkster, my Jib. It feels as though I've loved you for an eternity.<br /><br />I have, and I will.<br /><br />Happy birthday, little man.Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com58tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21558474.post-62601275609127486632009-05-14T11:34:00.003-04:002009-05-14T12:38:00.281-04:00Bang Bang, Baby<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif2jBfvwK1Th1fBkT0yjIR1rKMj3th-7crT3OOQ0dvOSoRwl3bL66aYxLd8QNi0nvgWFpoosaU04m1GEvZhSUsgpUXVB2Nt3SPkQYRHhRCpMJp80MpUZy86zrqZD0_ydTOLv3iFA/s1600-h/babypics+014.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif2jBfvwK1Th1fBkT0yjIR1rKMj3th-7crT3OOQ0dvOSoRwl3bL66aYxLd8QNi0nvgWFpoosaU04m1GEvZhSUsgpUXVB2Nt3SPkQYRHhRCpMJp80MpUZy86zrqZD0_ydTOLv3iFA/s400/babypics+014.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335708245648843202" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2009/05/janies-got-gun.html" target="_blank">All that worrying about guns</a>, and I somehow forgot that I grew up in Western Canada in the seventies. With parents who collected antique rifles. You know: <span style="font-style: italic;">old guns</span>. Which, apparently, they used <span style="font-style: italic;">as art</span>.<br /><br />I don't know. It seems to me that if I spent my infancy crawling around a gun rack, and I turned out okay, well, maybe <a href="http://http://badladies.blogspot.com/2009/05/janies-got-gun.html">my daughter can be exposed to the odd game of shoot 'em up</a> and not turn into a card-carrying member of the NRA and Junior Dick Cheney Fan Club.<br /><br />Here's hoping.Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21558474.post-8652025464495956032009-05-13T10:11:00.003-04:002009-05-13T11:26:34.842-04:00Janie's Got A GunSo, the other day, when I was worrying about <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2009/05/hello-princess.html"target="_blank">the potentially deleterious effects on my daughter of too much exposure to princess culture</a>? I think that I have bigger issues to worry about:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyWDCYioRbQRHfitTOCK1PjD5V7658eXo7FsjLtkf7sgpIY1N2ORjFXcjxQuvOuvAZsQovg23J-j5o' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">So here's the thing: I played games like Cops & Robbers and - yes - Cowboys & Indians (it was a different time) and Star Wars - complete with Light Sabers and sticks wielded as guns and sound effects - <span style="font-style: italic;">p-chew! p-chew! p-chew!</span> - when I was a kid, and I loved it - <span style="font-style: italic;">loved</span> it - and yet I still managed to grow to be a liberal pacifist and so I'm not inclined to a knee-jerk reaction of horror at the idea of children engaging in imaginative play that involves weapons. In <span style="font-style: italic;">theory</span>.<br /><br />In practice, when my three and half year old daughter cocks her fingers in the form of a gun and points them at me, mock-execution style, I recoil and quietly freak the hell out before telling her, in as calm a voice as I can manage, that it is simply <span style="font-style: italic;">not nice not nice at all</span> to pretend to shoot someone in the face.<br /><br />Then I debate whether or not to march down to her preschool in the morning and demand to know how and why it is that the preschoolers are engaging in pretend gun-play - because she <span style="font-style: italic;">did not</span> learn this at home - and <span style="font-style: italic;">where the hell are all the princess dollies, dammit</span>? Then I contemplate home-schooling. Then my head explodes.<br /><br />Then I calm down and ask myself why I need to freak out over everything. Why <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> I freak out over everything? <span style="font-style: italic;">Is</span> this worth freaking out over? Or, you know, do all preschoolers make a game of executing their mothers every once in a while?<br /><br />She's only three. <span style="font-style: italic;">Three</span>. This is nothing, I know, in the bigger scheme of growing up and going to school and making and losing friends and falling in and out love and - oh god - sex and drugs and <span style="font-style: italic;">gah gah gah</span>, but still.<br /><br />I'm going to need more Ativan.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(Thoughts welcome. Am I freaking out unnecessarily, or is home-schooling in order?)</span><br /><br /><br /></div></div>Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com80tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21558474.post-67753712640272666672009-05-12T19:56:00.004-04:002009-05-12T20:10:21.586-04:00I Contain Multitudes, And They All BlogPsst, hey... did I tell you? I have another not-so-super-secret mom-blogger hideaway. It's over <a href="http://blog.beliefnet.com/theirbadmother/" target="_blank">here</a>. Today<a href="http://blog.beliefnet.com/theirbadmother/2009/05/jennifer-garner-and-me-exploiter-moms.html" target="_blank"> I compared myself to Jennifer Garner</a>, which, you know, maybe didn't come out so well for me, but still. I felt like doing it. Which is really what that space is for: <a href="http://blog.beliefnet.com/theirbadmother/2009/05/their-bad-mother.html" target="_blank">mom-blogging, as I feel like doing it</a>. Or something like that. Anyway.<br /><br />Like you don't get enough of me already.<br /><br />Like that would stop me.Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21558474.post-23292967257748046562009-05-10T21:27:00.010-04:002009-05-11T13:33:08.570-04:00Hello, PrincessIt's a photo of me on my wedding day: just me, alone, posed at an angle, looking slightly over my shoulder. I'm not quite smiling, but not quite not smiling, either. It's one of the very few photos from our wedding day that I like; I usually hate how I photograph, and the photographic record from that day produced few exceptions. This photograph was one of them. I like this photograph.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinNt2DOTejNweQzLx5K6qH04a_jrEjRpXeajkqE1ZVeprght3H6iOC_QNenOs4gJkj4KLvJg2Ei1GcjEAGjcdyCeXdizrkfnKHoXd1jl522qbmG25EWjkyy-XUcwLXYZUczvqhog/s1600-h/mother's+day+etc+127.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinNt2DOTejNweQzLx5K6qH04a_jrEjRpXeajkqE1ZVeprght3H6iOC_QNenOs4gJkj4KLvJg2Ei1GcjEAGjcdyCeXdizrkfnKHoXd1jl522qbmG25EWjkyy-XUcwLXYZUczvqhog/s400/mother's+day+etc+127.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334378001130530002" border="0" /></a><br />So does Emilia. "This is pretty, Mommy."<br /><br />"Thank you, sweetie."<br /><br />"Can I have this in my room, Mommy?"<br /><br />"Of course."<br /><br />"Is it your wedding?"<br /><br />"Yep."<br /><br />"You're wearing a big dress?"<br /><br />"Yep."<br /><br />"You married Daddy?"<br /><br />"That's what he tells me."<br /><br />"Why do you have a different face from what you have now?"<br /><br />Ah. <span style="font-style: italic;">Ah.</span><br /><br />How does one explain aging to a three year-old? That photo was taken over 13 years ago. I was in my mid-twenties. I was young, impossibly young (and yet, how <span style="font-style: italic;">old</span> I thought I was. I was 22 when I met my husband. I thought that I was a woman of the world, well-travelled, experienced, mature. How was it that I could ever have thought that I was anything other than a <span style="font-style: italic;">child</span>?) That photo is a photo of a much, much younger me. <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2008/11/beauty-like-dial-hand.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-style: italic;">Of course</span> I look different</a>.<br /><br />"I'm older now, sweetie. That was a long time ago. People change as they get older. You don't look the same as you did when you were a baby, right?"<br /><br />She frowned. "But you've got stuff on your eyes." She stabbed a tiny finger at the photograph. "You're wearing <span style="font-style: italic;">make-up</span>." She said it as though it were an accusation. She said it as though it were something that I'd been keeping secret from her, something that I'd concealed and denied and prevaricated upon - a secret past as a real, live make-up-wearing <span style="font-style: italic;">girl</span>. A girl who bore little resemblance to the frumpy matron standing before her. I had, it seems, been withholding some very important information from my daughter: I hadn't always looked like a mom.<br /><br />Not all moms are frumpy. I'm not exactly frumpy myself, strictly speaking. I get good haircuts, which I don't necessarily always, you know, brush or anything, but still. I wash. I wear lipgloss. I have really good shoes. But I don't spend a lot of time buffing and polishing and making-up. I just don't have the energy. And truth be told, I don't really care. <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2008/11/beauty-like-dial-hand.html" target="_blank">I just don't</a>. It's not that I've given up, it's just that in a showdown between putting on eyeliner and getting fifteen more minutes of sleep, eyeliner - or straightening irons or mascara or Crest WhiteStrips - sleep will always win. I'm simply no longer that girl, because I am, simply, no longer a girl. I'm a woman - a woman dragging out the long tail of her thirties under conditions of extreme sleep-deprivation - a woman who has had two children and no Botox - a woman who has grown comfortable in her own imperfect skin.<br /><br />And yet, my daughter - my daughter, just three and a half and already exposed to the culture of Girl<span style="font-size:78%;"><sup>TM</sup></span> at preschool and in playgroups and on television (<span style="font-style: italic;">why we embrace Dora in this house, and limit - though not deny - exposure to the Princesses: because Dora - with her un-belashed eyes and her little pot belly - is so ordinarily, naturally girl-like</span>) - my daughter looks at me and sees something that doesn't accord with what she is learning about femininity. She looks at the picture of me on my wedding day, and sees someone who looks a litle bit like a Disney Princess - someone with big, thickly-lashed eyes and a puffy dress and a look of serene docility - and then she looks at me, the woman, the mother, and sees something different. And for a moment, I cringed, and was - for a fleeting moment, a fleeting moment - ashamed. And then I was ashamed for feeling ashamed.<br /><br />I knelt down and took the picture in my hand. "I still wear make-up sometimes. Just not all the time. I look nice with make-up, I know. But I also like how I look without make-up."<br /><br />"I like how you look too, Mommy."<br /><br />I smiled, gratified.<br /><br />"But I also like your make-up. And your princess dress. And maybe you could have sparkles, too. And eyelashes, and a crown. And you could wear them every day, or maybe just Saturday. And look like a girl. I like it when you look like a girl."<br /><br />Damn.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Where does one go with this? I don't want to teach her that pretty is something to be disdained - I like me some pretty - but I do kinda want to nip in the bud the idea that 'looking like a girl' = looking 'pretty' = looking like a princess. Is there a place for princesses in our ideas of what's pretty, without making 'princess' the determining factor? And how do I balance that with the realities - for me - of aging and wrinkles and mascara-fatigue?</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">How do I encourage her to see </span>that<span style="font-style: italic;"> beauty </span>as<span style="font-style: italic;"> beauty, and to recognize it as as feminine as anything that Disney can crank out?<br /><br />Or should I just give up, ScotchGuard the ol' wedding gown and make like a middle-aged, Dyson-and-laptop wielding Cinderella? PRINCESS IS THE NEW BLACK.<br /><br /><br /><br /></span>Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com66tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21558474.post-41940300212689693462009-05-08T00:02:00.001-04:002009-05-08T00:02:00.579-04:00Friday On My MindLo, it is Friday, and today, we shall have ice cream.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimIAbptxzMy0Tsdm7AfQQVI2psawdOk5BQJkvrQWInQawq1_ND3Ul8nFvyMYTG79R1flbNmDTDWJQYEdUmSpMrWewsxA51ErGhiSAb0MfdiUGWOXyXB6Sv77ztUS_Sgh-lpc5CHQ/s1600-h/P1020315.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimIAbptxzMy0Tsdm7AfQQVI2psawdOk5BQJkvrQWInQawq1_ND3Ul8nFvyMYTG79R1flbNmDTDWJQYEdUmSpMrWewsxA51ErGhiSAb0MfdiUGWOXyXB6Sv77ztUS_Sgh-lpc5CHQ/s400/P1020315.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5333275018464360434" border="0" /></a><br />Or rather, she will have ice cream, and I will struggle to recover from whatever bizarre stomach virus is causing me to huddle under the bedcovers trying to not vomit.<br /><br />(No, I am not pregnant. The husband got his boy parts snipped to avoid exactly that. That, however, is another story for another day. AM NOT PREGNANT. Am just probably dying from guinea pig flu or roostermonia or some such.)<br /><br />I will struggle to recover, because it is Mother's Day this weekend, and I am determined to milk that for whatever quantity of pancakes and maple syrup it's worth. Also, I <a href="http://www.bunchfamily.ca/family-dance-party/" target="_blank">have a party to go to</a>. When you get out as infrequently as I do, you don't let a little thing like projectile vomiting interfere with an excuse to put on dancing shoes.<br /><br />While I'm recovering, you can amuse yourselves with the following:<br /><br />1) <a href="http://news.cnnbcvideo.com/index.html?first=Catherine&p=&Submit=Submit&last=Connors&id=&nid=GuxxfN_V0946zuElMeOv_Tc1ODMwMDk-" target="_blank">My Mother Of The Year Award</a>. Hard-won, I'd say. Most of you deserve it more than I do. Hell, you should probably just go ahead and steal the crown from me. Go ahead: <a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://news.cnnbcvideo.com/index2.html" target="_blank">do it</a><span style="font-style: italic;"></span>.<br /><br />2) <a href="http://www.blogher.com/letter-my-mother-i-love-you-forever-bad-mother-belly-buttons-and-cabbage-patches-edition" target="_blank">My Letter To My Mother</a>. It's mushy, but it's Mother's Day this weekend, so. What do you want from me?<br /><br />3) <a href="http://www.blogher.com/birth-love-story" target="_blank">My reflections on birth stories</a>: the good, the bad and the sublime. See above re: mush, and bring hankies.<br /><br />4) <a href="http://blog.beliefnet.com/theirbadmother/" target="_blank">My new blog</a>. Yes, really. After coming <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2009/04/sufficient-unto-this-day.html" target="_blank">so very close to quitting blogging</a>, what do I go and do? Build another blog! But it's a necessary thing, a pressure-relieving thing. It's a new space for me to stretch some of the mommy blogger muscles that I haven't really been into stretching here. It's a space for me to really play with topics and ideas and stories that have sort of fallen out of the narrative of Her Bad Mother. It's going to help me to be happier blogging <span style="font-style: italic;">here</span>, because it will provide me with a <span style="font-style: italic;">there</span> - and a <span style="font-style: italic;">their</span> - if that makes sense. It's... well, <a href="http://blog.beliefnet.com/theirbadmother/2009/05/their-bad-mother.html" target="_blank">go read it for yourselves</a>.<br /><br />5) <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2009/05/home-depot-is-for-lovers.html" target="_blank">My beautiful, beautiful boy</a>, who gives Narcissus a good name, and who justifies, perfectly, the art of being amused and entranced by one's own reflection. Which, you know, suits me just fine.Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21558474.post-16673382578174043802009-05-06T10:00:00.006-04:002009-05-06T11:09:42.308-04:00Home Depot Is For Lovers<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglB4fNKLR5G-aCQR7gultizVbQaF7uri-TPMZsRi1z40nsikg9OdFuM_XuhAfZmonAKZ4jLgmOmRWBKf4dn4_kYZrFXjVRRnasKR0ew5WzZ4380vBCOnWzyQ_jg8Dlc4Thvgk6nA/s1600-h/P1020352.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglB4fNKLR5G-aCQR7gultizVbQaF7uri-TPMZsRi1z40nsikg9OdFuM_XuhAfZmonAKZ4jLgmOmRWBKf4dn4_kYZrFXjVRRnasKR0ew5WzZ4380vBCOnWzyQ_jg8Dlc4Thvgk6nA/s400/P1020352.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332711261291021362" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnOeEo2-rwDsjqJ2kraw67HzeI2yy77t03vlOppmYpzpd0V6SXaQY6Nzj21H2pRoXQqWjnV-qun5bFDFIMn2OUxDF9il_MtzyOzeWDetnznyD3qmc0SkTkQiUEth8Zygs6d_4FBw/s1600-h/P1020353.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnOeEo2-rwDsjqJ2kraw67HzeI2yy77t03vlOppmYpzpd0V6SXaQY6Nzj21H2pRoXQqWjnV-qun5bFDFIMn2OUxDF9il_MtzyOzeWDetnznyD3qmc0SkTkQiUEth8Zygs6d_4FBw/s400/P1020353.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332723853802301602" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOhu27qwccC32uHepkAo0S3nbW7eBeQuddL_zKTYiDnOJF6petbMO2ojn-R01FjIgtutQwI93Icl_3iaMaTiGsnS7xADDpc4_5Az5N-KAmQQYf5SceLVyWnSHLSWagmDnQo5tkBA/s1600-h/P1020355.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOhu27qwccC32uHepkAo0S3nbW7eBeQuddL_zKTYiDnOJF6petbMO2ojn-R01FjIgtutQwI93Icl_3iaMaTiGsnS7xADDpc4_5Az5N-KAmQQYf5SceLVyWnSHLSWagmDnQo5tkBA/s400/P1020355.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332724357839424642" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6IORFQitO3mp66UjRqaONY6ghP1LBBoo0eBvMwsawWS-XapxJGHILLmqUsm9eTzpEVM3o_es5PTQMIg45k_p62Z52nbtTBLpV6Rwr5kuBF06b5sWd5uvoms-4oRNP-um3Ti4G_g/s1600-h/P1020360.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6IORFQitO3mp66UjRqaONY6ghP1LBBoo0eBvMwsawWS-XapxJGHILLmqUsm9eTzpEVM3o_es5PTQMIg45k_p62Z52nbtTBLpV6Rwr5kuBF06b5sWd5uvoms-4oRNP-um3Ti4G_g/s400/P1020360.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332725124891681794" border="0" /></a><br />The lesson here: the course of true love never did run smooth. That, and think twice before slipping the tongue to strangers that you meet in the Home Depot interior doors and closet fittings aisle.Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com52tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21558474.post-26946861240752351762009-05-04T09:51:00.007-04:002009-05-04T14:08:29.126-04:00Just Another (Very Possibly Slightly Less) Manic MondayThis might be the most hopeful Monday that I've had in some weeks - nobody in this house has been hospitalized <a href="http://h30440.www3.hp.com/dara-torres/#/Introduction/" target="_blank">since Friday</a>, and I am not writing this <a href="http://twitter.com/herbadmother/status/1669773144" target="_blank">from a public library terminal</a> - but still. It's Monday. Something, somewhere, sucks, and it's probably headed my way.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ9hXAn2oKyAdz2ZYXkaOnDt6SGyhzfMV8b14_HzcF24lkiWlLbhBBr5z1U6Aq30wnIHPrfGIB54Bd3lB2d7FxK27Sq62Z4N91PXZs-4xfZqgOkQob-Slv8H4VnkDnb5CXiHYsAA/s1600-h/monday-monkeys_computers.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 244px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ9hXAn2oKyAdz2ZYXkaOnDt6SGyhzfMV8b14_HzcF24lkiWlLbhBBr5z1U6Aq30wnIHPrfGIB54Bd3lB2d7FxK27Sq62Z4N91PXZs-4xfZqgOkQob-Slv8H4VnkDnb5CXiHYsAA/s400/monday-monkeys_computers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331986416424520306" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Public Library Terminal.</span><br /></div><br />Anyhoo. Good things:<br /><br />1) You know about <a href="http://svmomblog.typepad.com/canada_moms_blog/" target="_blank">Canada Moms Blog</a>, right? <span style="font-style: italic;">Right?</span> Well, the first official Canada Moms Blog Getting Ready To Launch Party is going to be this coming Mothers' Day Weekend in Toronto. This Saturday - May 9, the day before Mothers' Day - from 2 - 5 we'll be joining the <a href="http://www.bunchfamily.ca/" target="_blank">Bunch</a> gang at their <a href="http://www.bunchfamily.ca/family-dance-party/" target="_blank">annual pre-Moms' Day bash</a> and they'll help us kick-off Canada Moms Blog all glam-like. And we would <em>love it love it love it</em> if you would join us. Bring the kiddies! Get tattooed! Raise a glass to Canada Moms Blog and, you know, moms! <span>(Read more about it at <a href="http://svmomblog.typepad.com/canada_moms_blog/2009/05/you-know-you-love-us-wanna-party.html" target="_blank">Canada Moms Blog</a>, and leave us a comment if you think you might attend.)</span><br /><br /><span>2) You know about <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2009/03/world-according-to-mom.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-style: italic;">The World According To Mom</span></a> project, right? <span style="font-style: italic;">Right?</span> Well, last time I checked, both Canada and the US were part of the globe, so you should totally join in. We're currently at <a href="http://itsnotalecture.blogspot.com/2009/05/world-according-to-mom-update-10.html" target="_blank"><span style="font-style: italic;">250</span> posts from parents in 41 countries and in seven languages.</a> Which is a little short of our goal of 80 countries - we did, after all, subtitle the project <span style="font-style: italic;">Around The World In 80 Clicks</span> - but still pretty awesome. And it would be even more awesome if you'd consider - maybe in honour of Mothers' Day - doing a post, or spreading the word. And if you wanted to say that you were writing from Narnia or Oz or Middle Earth, well, I wouldn't say anything, because fictional territories should totally count.<br /></span><br /><span>3) I have a computer now. It's beautiful. It's not really mine (see my postscript on <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2009/05/brother-by-any-other-name.html" target="_blank">this post</a>; <a href="http://h30440.www3.hp.com/dara-torres/#/Introduction/" target="_blank">HP</a> is lending it to me, because I am sad and desperate and complicated, and they are all about making things happy and peaceful and simple) but isn't that the way that it always is with really beautiful things? Like peonies and sunsets and the way that sunlight dances on ocean waves at the height of summer? And cake? Okay, not cake.<br /><br />Anyone want to send me cake?<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(Yes, I closed comments, </span>again<span style="font-style: italic;">. Because I want you to go </span><a style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" href="http://svmomblog.typepad.com/canada_moms_blog/2009/05/you-know-you-love-us-wanna-party.html" target="_blank">here</a><span style="font-style: italic;"> and say that you'll join us or </span><a style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;" href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2009/03/world-according-to-mom.html" target="_blank">here</a><span style="font-style: italic;"> and say that you'll join us or for you to just use the time that you were going to spend commenting to bake me a cake.)</span><br /><br /></span>Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21558474.post-50393095913182504702009-05-01T09:37:00.005-04:002009-05-01T22:00:20.896-04:00A Brother By Any Other NameMy brother, he has a name, a real name, a name that was given to him by the man and woman who became his true parents, a name that carried him through childhood and adolescence and high school and on into adulthood, a name that he probably learned to write by tracing its letters in pencil on lined scribblers, a name that he he probably scrawled on desktops and in the backs of math textbooks, a name that he has no doubt signed on countless cheques and contracts and letters. He has a name. <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2008/08/lost-boy.html" target="_blank">It is not the name my mother gave him</a>.<br /><br />I know this name, now. Knowing this name makes feel both closer to him, and further away. Closer, because knowing his name will help me find him. Further away, because it is the name of a stranger, and sometimes I forget that it is a stranger I am looking for. A stranger who might have no idea that he has a birth sister (sisters), and a birth mother <a href="http://thebadgrandma.blogspot.com/2009/04/lost-boy-my-story.html" target="_blank">whose heart aches when she thinks of him</a>. A stranger who might not care.<br /><br />I have to remind myself that this story might not have a happy ending. I have to remind myself that, sometimes, an unhappy ending is better than no ending at all.<br /><br />And so I press on.<br /><br />I won't be sharing his name here. I had thought that I might, thinking that people publish classified ads all the time, looking for lost family, lost friends, lost strangers. But this space isn't a classified ad, and because he is a stranger - with name and a life that are all his own - I need to keep his name out of my story. If you have an opinion on this, either way, I'd love to hear it. The temptation to post his name was strong - someone, somewhere, knows him, and among the many visitors to this blog there must be some degree of connection to him - and although I believe that the decision to keep his name private is right, I'd love to hear what everybody else thinks. I want to do what is right. I also kinda want to talk it out.<br /><br />Another question - because I am lost here, and your support and advice have done much to light my way so far - once one has narrowed down some possibilities - by name, and not just by the guesswork I was doing the other week - how does one approach a stranger with a story like this? How does one say, <span style="font-style: italic;">I found you by this name; were you once called by another name?</span> Does one write? Does one call? Does one message via Facebook? Does one send word by carrier pigeon?<br /><br />I'm lost.<br /><br />(Note: if anyone is mean in the comments, like last time - and by mean I don't mean critical - you're allowed to give your honest opinion, even if you think I might not like it. I mean MEAN - I will close comments again. This topic is too sensitive for me. I want feedback, but don't tell me that you think I'm a selfish, insensitive attention-whore for telling this story.)<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(Oh, and? My computer problems are soon to be rectified. </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://h30440.www3.hp.com/dara-torres/#/Introduction/">HP</a><span style="font-style: italic;" target="_blank"> thought that my circumstances represented a great opportunity - because they are interested in </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://h30440.www3.hp.com/dara-torres/#/Introduction/" target="_blank">simplifying moms' lives</a><span style="font-style: italic;">, and I am a mom whose life became, with the death of her computer, very complicated - for me to roadtest, on a lending basis, one of their new notebooks. Which is kind of poetic, because it was an HP notebook </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2009/04/law-order-special-technology-victims.html" target="_blank">that Jasper murdered</a><span style="font-style: italic;">. So it's kind of like getting a Labradoodle puppy to replace your old Labradoodle who died when the baby pushed him off the couch. Sort of. If that Labradoodle puppy were just on loan and was wireless compatible.)</span>Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com138tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21558474.post-78421323832819515462009-04-29T09:12:00.005-04:002009-04-29T10:06:28.188-04:00Law & Order: Special Technology Victims UnitYesterday, a murder was committed in my household. In a moment of fleeting and senseless violence, my beloved companion - let's call her Hewlett Packard PC Notebook, although I was usually wont to call her Buttercup - was brutally and fatally attacked. The perpetrator? Jasper, who in a fit of baby frustration grabbed her and pummeled her and flung her to the floor, where, with a flicker and a hiss, she died. As an infant, he cannot be held criminally responsible, but he does face at least twenty years of being regularly reminded of <span style="font-style: italic;">that time he killed Mommy's computer and Mommy had a nervous breakdown</span>.<br /><br />I am bereft, I am bereft. Also, I am living in the Dark Ages. It's quiet here. (It's a Dark Ages with smartphones and wired public libraries, but still. I AM WITHOUT LAPTOP. I might as well be without arms.)<br /><br />(No, not without arms. WITHOUT AIR. I am trapped in an airless box with only teeny holes and a drinking straw through which to suck oxygen from the outside world. A drinking straw, and not the bendy kind. And its ends are all chewed up and flattened and OH GOD I CANNOT GET AIR.)<br /><br />(<span style="font-style: italic;">*faints*</span>)<br /><br />So, my laptop was murdered and I am seriously, seriously limited in my connectivity. Which is, you know, a disaster, because my livelihood depends upon that connectivity and seriously, how is one supposed to make one's living as a writer in the Internet Age when one is equipped only with a smartphone and a library card? (You try battling teenagers for the Internet-connected computers in the library. They're jonesing for their MySpace, and <span style="font-style: italic;">they will cut you</span> to get it. Or at least they have that look about them.) And in the meantime, I have articles to write, books to pitch, posts to post, and <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2008/08/lost-boy.html" target="_blank">a brother to look for</a> (I've just learned his real name, which gives me something to search for at the precise moment that I am unable to do electronic searching. Wherefore art thou, Google?) And my husband is going tomorrow to have his boy parts snipped and I'm all ambivalent and confused about that and really kinda need to write it out but <span style="font-style: italic;">gah</span>. Am thwarted. Am thwarted and bereft and lost.<br /><br />(Also can't read online commentary about Lost.)<br /><br />(Shoot me now.)<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">*Also can't monitor comments, so. This post will have to remain a comment-free cry in the dark. </span>Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21558474.post-53300314438313720292009-04-27T09:54:00.007-04:002009-04-27T20:55:48.991-04:00Needful ThingsJasper came into the world with a bang, in a hulksmash explosion of blood and birthmatter and pain. And when they handed him to me - he, as full and round and alert as a baby many times his age - he reached for me and clung and suckled with the same ferocious determination that had <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2008/05/speed-racer-birth-story.html" target="_blank">propelled him so explosively from my womb</a>.<br /><br />He clung to me and suckled and grew and grew and grew. <a href="http://badladies.blogspot.com/2008/06/boobityville-horror.html" target="_blank">I ached, and bled, pummelled and raw from his insistent thirst</a>. I ached and bled, and loved.<br /><br />I called him <span style="font-style: italic;">Truffler</span>, because at night he would snort and burrow, seeking out my breast with his nose and mouth, never opening his eyes, never waking, just drinking, sucking, snorfling until he had his fill. In the light of day, eyes open, he would use his hands, grabbing and kneading and pinching and gazing up at me, an adorable little beastie, ravenous and innocent and impossibly, impossibly soft, and I would wonder: <span style="font-style: italic;">how can a creature that brings such pain inspire such </span><span style="font-style: italic;">tenderness? Why do I not push him away?</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQfZLbSWgE2U1fZHLR7PQyfypdo_r2VUVyJI7rF79qMGsnsw4gWsR8p0AFlJuAtZC44OurUHiRTFluU4VSASBnnBgIDdgfTY45ZUwjOTDm9w_TQCCaUHPUJlFWzbS7bW61injzaA/s1600-h/canon+pics+november+037.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQfZLbSWgE2U1fZHLR7PQyfypdo_r2VUVyJI7rF79qMGsnsw4gWsR8p0AFlJuAtZC44OurUHiRTFluU4VSASBnnBgIDdgfTY45ZUwjOTDm9w_TQCCaUHPUJlFWzbS7bW61injzaA/s320/canon+pics+november+037.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329397361228521682" border="0" /></a><br />I could not push him away. I could no more push him away than I could tear through my ribcage and rip out my heart. And so I pulled him to me, time and again, and exulted in the soft curves of his fat baby legs and his rounded baby belly and his plush baby bum, and smiled through the pain and exhaustion and wished, fervently, that this would never end. I pulled him to me and clung to him and drank in his babyness like a draught, knowing, in my gut, that someday, I would miss this, crave this, yearn for this like the parched soul yearns for cool water. And so I drank it in, in big, greedy gulps, matching his thirst with my own.<br /><br />Even when the exhaustion became unbearable, I resisted pulling away. Even when he started to bite, I resisted pulling away. I tottered and spun from the exhaustion; my breasts bled from his painful nips: still I perservered, determined to preserve this, his babyness, his need for me. Even when it hurt, this need, I clung to it, I <span style="font-style: italic;">clung to it</span>, unwilling - unable? - to let go. That he refused bottles was, in my tired mind, a kind of victory: he would have only <span style="font-style: italic;">me</span>. He wanted only <span style="font-style: italic;">me</span>. His need kept him young; his need kept him mine.<br /><br />I drank his need like a draught.<br /><br />When he finally took a bottle - a good thing, I agreed with my husband, a good thing that he be able to get nourishment from someone other than me, a good thing that I could be separated from him for a night, a good thing that he not need me so relentlessly - I recognized the moment as a victory. I could sleep through the night. I could leave him for more than a few hours at a time. I could wear a bra that did not feature clip-up flaps. I could go a day without being bitten. I could reacquaint myself with my body as my own.<br /><br />I could move - I <span style="font-style: italic;">can</span> move, now - through the day and through the night without experiencing myself as an object of need. This is good. I love it; I celebrate it; I thank the gods for it. But is it wrong to say - even as I recognize that he will outgrow that need, even as I acknowledge that he <span style="font-style: italic;">must</span> outgrow that need, even as I celebrate my freedom <span style="font-style: italic;">from</span> that need - that <span style="font-style: italic;">I</span> still <span style="font-style: italic;">need</span> him, that I am thirsty for his need of me?<br /><br />Is it wrong that I cling to his babyness like an infant to a breast, that, in moments, I must fight the urge to paw and truffle and cling, to bury my nose in the sweet, soft folds of his neck and whisper, <span style="font-style: italic;">you are mine</span>? Is it wrong that I have moments of wanting to press him to me and wish ourselves back to the first months of his life, when his need was unquenchable, indisputable? Is it wrong that I have moments of wishing that I could freeze time here and keep him as he is, or as he was a few weeks ago, my needful creature? Is it wrong that while I celebrate, quietly, ambivalently, his weaning, I mourn the growth, the movement toward his independence from me that this weaning represents? Is it wrong that I wish, sometimes, that I could keep him like this, a baby, my baby, forever?<br /><br />This is the way his babyhood ends, not with a bang but a whisper.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3NSus8GKgvfJEER1CXaLKiaXQA5AeEJ66YGyS7yCA9s2OG9OVCe8Zq3pinjR2ngbm9ICGGmt6iHCjIxlwW55uE-i4ZHUVC-9Gy2BFDdkZgoAQ8Owme1Ly1hZvFgTgVRg-ZIXWBg/s1600-h/spring+09+161.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3NSus8GKgvfJEER1CXaLKiaXQA5AeEJ66YGyS7yCA9s2OG9OVCe8Zq3pinjR2ngbm9ICGGmt6iHCjIxlwW55uE-i4ZHUVC-9Gy2BFDdkZgoAQ8Owme1Ly1hZvFgTgVRg-ZIXWBg/s400/spring+09+161.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5329398771922207106" border="0" /></a>Her Bad Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03535958887714152413noreply@blogger.com84