When I was little, I would talk to cats. They would reply. Adults laughed at this. Kids picked on this. Nobody really understood this.
My first cat, Moonshadow, became pregnant. She told me one night that she was going to have her babies that night. She was going to have 7 babies, and they were going to look like their father, not be all black like her. She also told me that she was going to have them in the closet in my Grandma’s bedroom, as that was the safest place to bring them into this world.
I told my mom, grandmother, and the people they had over for the party that night. They all laughed and patted my head, and sent me to bed so the adults could enjoy their party.
They woke me a couple of hours later, so I could see the 7 newborn kittens that were cuddled up to their mommy in my Grandmother’s bedroom closet.
***
My grandmother told me I should be a vet because of my ability. Thing is, it only happens with cats. I cannot speak with dogs, birds, and such. Plus, I get attached fairly easily. So I get hurt fairly often, when they pass.
***
The cat that had me the longest was my girl Pumpkin. She and I functioned on a different level. She was my twin in feline form.
When I was playful, she was. When I was hurting, she would provide me comfort. When I was mad at someone, she would punish said person.
We were twins for 18 human years.
She claimed my oldest son as her own, during my pregnancy. That was HER baby. I was just the surrogate. She would wrap herself around my protruding belly, and purr the kick happy boy back to sleep. She would place a paw upon my belly, until the fluttery feeling of the babies hiccups settled down and faded. If anyone, including me, would try to touch my belly, when he kicked and moved, she would swat our invading hands away. You were not allowed access to her little man.
When he was born, she would lay beside his crib at night, the ultimate protector. She would lay her paw upon his chest, as he drank his bottle, or breast-fed. Patting at me when he was ready for a burp, or finished with his meal. As he got older, she would lay on the floor in front of him, and intentionally swish her tail just out of his reach. He tried and tried to catch the orange, white and black tail, stretching out his little hand, but never quite reaching it. And then he started using his feet to push himself forward, enough to feel the furry tip flinch into and out of his palm. Then she would move forward another inch. She was teaching him how to crawl, we learned.
He was walking in no time, and so she taught him how to run. She would playfully tap at his ankles and jump back. He would giggle and step towards her, and she’d evade, always a step outside of his reach. Within a week they were chasing each other through the house.
She loved my little man as if he were hers. And he adored her. It was beautiful.
She told me one night a few years later that she wasn’t doing well. We both knew that she was old for her species. 18 human years had come and gone. Many memories made in that time.
Shared whoppers laying on the couch for New Years, watching the ball drop on TV. Her correcting my form when practicing my violin. Her swatting at my pen while I tried to write love letters to guys that she felt weren’t the right ones for me. Her walking the edges of the bathtub, smacking at the iridescent bubbles that bobbed on top of the water. Beating up dogs that mistakenly took her for easy prey, and learning that she was not the prey in the situation. Saving me from countless snakes. Bringing me many a lizard, bird, and mouse as treats. Cuddling with me under the blankets, as if she were human too. Her learning how to use the touch lamp, and breaking its touch ability by playing with it for too many late nights.Countless conversations about life, love, friendship, family.
So much love within our life together. So much love.
She became very ill at the end. Her liver gave out. Her kidneys went. She slept most of the day, in obvious pain when she had to wake for food or the potty. She became sick after she ate, every single time.
It was time to let her go. To say goodbye. She wanted it, because the pain was so much. But she didn’t because the love was so much as well. It shred us both to make the decision to say our temporary goodbyes.
We went to the vets office, they led us back to a room. The walls were cinder blocks, painted a gun-metal blue. The black leather padded table rested against one wall, a short counter with a sink lined the wall across the way. My dad stood behind me, while I pet her gently in my arms, telling her how much I loved her. How beautiful she was. How much I was going to miss our cuddles and late night chats. To take care of my babies in the afterlife, as she had helped take care of the one that was on this earth.
The nurse came in, asked me to place Pumpkin on the table so she could give her the shot the would end her pain. I refused. She was born into this world in the palms of my hands, she would go the same way.
The nurse had me hold out Pumpkins arm, as she injected the concoction into her. The nurse said that she would be gone within 15 minutes.
Pumpkin curled into my chest, her cheek resting against mine. She purred. The edges of her pain were finally bleeding away. She licked at my tears, telling me that I would be okay, that she was finally free of the torment that she had been dealing with for the last year.
She told me that she didn’t want to go, but she couldn’t stay either. It was too much. The pain she knew, too cruel.
The nurse had to administer a second dose.
Pumpkin faded fast. She became heavy and weightless within my arms. Her breath slowed. I felt her heartbeat fade even more, the throb of life stuttering and coming to a halt against my palm. Her final breath fluttered gently against the tears streaming down my cheek, and then she was gone.
I felt the contact of our blended minds break within my head, and the loss of her shattered my heart.
***
I could never be the vet my grandmother suggested I become.
I couldn’t see abused animals, sick animals, and dying animals on a regular basis. Their pain becomes my pain. I’m far too aware to do that daily.
It’s hard enough losing the ones I love and know well. I couldn’t handle losing so many more, because I can hear them. I understand them. And they, me.
***
My loves cat moved in with us recently. This furball has a stellar personality. He’s the most sarcastic cat I’ve had the privilege to be claimed by so far. He’s not quite sure of the preteen yet, as they haven’t had a bonding moment. He’s wary of the two-year-old, as he’s still a bit hyper and not conscious of his actions and movements. But the 4-year-old is different.
He knows that the middle child is different from the other two. We’ve chatted about it a couple of times. My middle son is autistic. He has texture issues. He’s very wary of animals. But this kitty gets that, as he senses it, and he asks me questions about it.
The middle is very careful when he pets him, and the kitty knows that this is a major step for the little guy, so he’s patient with him. He may pet the wrong spot, and even though kitty would normally let the owner of such offending touches become aware of his feelings about that, he doesn’t do it with him. He knows how important this developing relationship is.
I love him for that.
Out of the three boys, I think the middle will develop my skill for talking to cats. He’s picking up on the cats thoughts and feelings here and there. He’s asked the cat (and told him a few times) to be nice to his little brother. I can feel when the cat is at his limits with the youngest, and the middle is starting to feel it too. And just before kitty is about to put the youngest in his place, the middle asks him to be nice. Kitty backs down, and the urge to smack the youngest dims in his mind. The middle smiles and pets him, and then distracts the youngest to give the frustrated cat a break.
I won’t suggest becoming a vet to him. Because he’d feel their loss just as keenly. But his ability will give him a bond unlike any other. I have a feeling that we will find his Pumpkin soon. And I believe that when we do, this ability will bring him closer to understanding the rest of the human world more than any human could help him.
The skeptics may laugh and shake their heads in disbelief. But I have the memory of a kitty giving birth to 7 babies in a closet, and a room full of adults looking at me with the light of belief dawning in their eyes.
Just because you don’t understand, or have this ability yourself, doesn’t make it any less real.
Patiently
She was forever waiting for him.
She knew that this wasn’t healthy. This constant catering to his needs. His desires. His wants. His dreams. Everything flowing around the world that she had made of him.
But she couldn’t help breaking herself against the rock that was he.
And breaking her it was.
The tears edged the fringe of her lashes. Thick tears, full of the pain that she feared speaking of, to him. Because every time she whispered that she needed more, he would walk away from her. And he made the leaving her part look so much easier than she felt it should be.
Leaving her adrift in a deserted world. A place where sound became hollow. Colors became drained echoes. A place where the emptiness of it all tore at the very core of her.
So her needs remained unmet. Her desires never spoken of. Her dreams dying within her mind. Because it was easier to watch herself crumble and die, than it was to hear his easily said goodbyes.
If only he could love her the way she loved him. She was willing to hand him the world. He would flinch at her asking for mere grains of sand.
But oh, he could make all of the aching inside of her seem worth it.
All it took was a touch, a smile, a quick kiss upon her cheek. His hand softly brushing a stray strand from her face. On those rare mornings when he would wake next to her, and pull her tightly into his chest, making her feel needed, wanted, desired… she would forget, for a moment, how alone she felt with him.
Time passed. She remained patient. Foolishly hopeful that one day he would see her the way she wanted him to. Like she was his air, that he could not breathe without. As if she was shelter that he could depend on in the raging storm. That her every word was poetry to his soul.
But that hope began to dim. She could feel him searching for something more. Something different. Something that she could never be for him. No matter how much she tried. No matter what she changed. She could never be what he wanted.
She started to see how he saw her. A stop over to something better. She was convenient. Safe until he found what he was really looking for. He saw nothing wrong with using her, because she offered it so willingly.
Finally the whispers escaped her again. All she wanted to be happier than she was. All that she needed to be content. That which she desired, to feel whole.
Once again, he told her that he was giving her all that he could. That she should see that. He was already compromising all that he could. And if it wasn’t enough for her, then he should probably just leave.
Because leaving me is far easier. Because my needs will always be secondary to your own. Because this is all about you and what you can give. Because this will never be about us meeting in the middle. Instead it will always be about the few crumbs you’re willing to drop on the edges of your own happiness. Because to you, those crumbs will look like loaves, far flung.
The anger of waiting so patiently. The emptiness of giving and never receiving. The pain of breaking herself over those few measly crumbs. They ripped the words out of her heart, streamed through her throat, passed her mouth, and into the air between them.
Heat flushed up her chest and into her neck, settling into burning orbs upon the apples of her cheeks. Her hands shook with the emotions of it all. Everything she had said and left unsaid tornado-ed within her mind. She regretted the words almost immediately, wishing her fingers could snatch them back from the air that separated them.
She saw the leaving in his eyes. He didn’t have to say a word. She had already said too much. She had pushed him too far, and the rock that was he, refused to budge.
She watched as his face closed down. She watched as he walked away. She could hear the ocean crashing inside her head. The ocean that was her.The waters were no longer calm, weaving around the places that he had allowed her to go. They crashed against the rock that he was. Pushed, shoved, ripped, and tore away at the unfairness of it all.
She sank to her knees as the front door slammed closed. Tears pattered against her knees. Her shoulders shook as the sobs wrenched their way out of her soul.
Through the haze of tears in her eyes, she stared at her hands. They would no longer know his touch. They would no longer try to memorize the hills and valleys of him. They would no longer reach for him.
She had patiently broken herself upon the rock of hope. And now they both were dust, settling in his wake.
On Being Cray Cray. AKA- I’m a writer.
Writing can be a very lonely thing, while being a very social thing. Here you are, alone in a room, sitting before a monitor (or pen and paper) and all you hear is the tap of the keys, or the scratch on paper. Yes, you have those you love, your family and friends, but when it gets to the writing part, you’re alone. All but for the voices in your head. (We writers really do sound like we need professional help when I say that.)
I very rarely give away what I am working on (in my fiction writer world). I may toss ideas out, but very few people know what it is I’m actually working on. Partly because I want it to be perfect, each sentence written with the utmost care. But mostly because I’m scared that the idea will be taken from me, and someone else will write it out far quicker. No, it won’t be the same, but it’s enough to kill what I do have.
I’m speaking with experience.
But sometimes you have to speak the story out loud. Work out details that elude you on the page. Sometimes, you just have to say it, so it’s not repeating itself in your mind, staring you down through the gun-sights from Times New Roman in 12 point on a white background. Sometimes, the story needs to actually be told, not just read.
And that’s where the picture to the left comes in. This is Sir Cobalticus. My new writing buddy. We just met today, but we have an adventure before us. He’s the Holmes to my Sherlock. The Rose to my Doctor. Or, for those of you not all geeky and literary, he’s the fish that will hopefully make me look less (but probably more) crazy.
The plan is to talk to him about those corners I write myself into. Bounce ideas off of. Gripe at when my characters decide to do something unbelievably stupid. Or to stare at when I need a moment to calm myself.
Who knows, maybe he’ll even reply! “Oh Shay, you crazed in the head loon, nobody will believe that load of…” “Hey now kind Sir, watch yourself!”
Or, maybe he’ll just stay a fish.
I think it’ll be the first one that happens though. I mean, we’re only a few hours into our new relationship, and he gets incredibly excited to see me when I grab a cuppa and come right back. You should see all of the fanning out and staring at me that he does then!
Just imagine us a few months from now… what a beautiful start to ending a writer’s lonely little world. I hope they make me a straight jacket that matches his beautiful shade of blue.
Because I Wish To Dance In The Sunlight
I have Lupus. Simple enough to say, a nightmare to live with, incredibly difficult to explain.
My hair is falling out, thinning out, breaking, splitting. My skin has rashes that I try to hide. I get abscesses in some very painful places. My joints feel like they are trying to dislocate. My muscles feel like they are torn, tearing, or have been stretched too far. Be they sun rays or indoor lighting, UV hurts me, everywhere. I’m exhausted, so exhausted. Depression is a constant battle, be it from dealing with the pain, or the “side” effects of this disease. I catch everything, as my immune system is constantly fighting itself.
I am constantly aware of my mortality.
I am very aware of time and how precious it is.
I am dying a very slow and very debilitating death.
One that refuse to give in to, to bend to, to bow to. It will have to drag me away kicking and screaming.
That long paragraph above, is just a glimpse into my world. Are you sure you want more? Because I am about to give it to you.
3 years ago I had thick hair. THICK hair. And so very much of it. It took two ponytail holders to gather it all. The weight of it when wet was intense. It would cause me to sweat in cold winter months, no hat required! 2 years ago I noticed that it was splitting a lot. The strands looked thinner. The drain was filling with washed off strands during every shower. The wide toothed comb had a handful even after the shower loss. I was shedding everywhere. A year ago I started cutting myself bangs because I could see my scalp shining through the front. Not that this provided much camouflage. As I stated in a blog before, I can no longer dye my hair, as my scalp starts burning within seconds of the dye touching my skin.
I have blotches, rashes, and breakouts covering my arms, back, stomach, breasts, hips and thighs. I’ve tried creams, lotions, antibacterial soaps, organic, oils… nothing helps. It’s bad enough to have body issues, but then your body gives you even more. You can tell when I’m having “good skin” because I’m willing to show more of it during those times.
The abscesses used to stick to my inner thighs. Then last February they started to migrate. I ended up in the ER getting emergency surgery. I had three abscesses that combined to make a super abscess. (Humor is my shield from the remembered pain, and the humiliation that I still have from this.) It went from my thigh, through the crease of where my groin and thigh meet, and into my groin itself. It took ketamine through my IV to get me under ENOUGH for them to lance and drain it. I was still crying and screaming through that, and I will have to write a blog for the shit it did to my head some other time. The doctor was worried that it was septic, or would be at any moment. He didn’t understand how I was walking, let alone working, through the pain it was causing me. I have a high pain tolerance. The problem with this is once that tolerance is breached, it’s damn near impossible to get on top of. The amount of “liquid” and tissue they drained from this super abscess was the size of 2 grapefruits. It took almost two boxes of gauze to pack it. Have a strong stomach? Google abscess images. I don’t recommend it though. I now get them on my thighs, groin area, hips and breasts fairly regularly- i.e.: three or more each month. I try to lance them myself or pray they rupture on their own, as doctors are expensive, and if I catch them before they get that extreme, they only take about a week to heal.
My joints always feel sensitive anymore. I have to be cognizant of what I’m doing when I walk, turn, cross my legs, as any sudden or sharp movements can piss them off in a heartbeat. During a flare, it takes everything I have to walk to the bathroom, even more to sit on the toilet, and mental chants to stand up from it again. None of my joints can rest on hard surfaces, as this will make it almost impossible to move them again anytime soon. Lying is painful. Standing is painful. Sitting is painful. Are you aware of every joint in your body? Not just your shoulders, hips, and knees. But also, every joint in each finger, toe, or in your wrists, each part of your spine, where your ribs meet it? Now simultaneously pull them apart, shove them together, fill them with extra fluid, set them on fire and make them ice. Every. Single. One. Breathing too deep makes my back and ribs feel like they are about to explode. I’ve learned to breathe shallowly because of this. Sneezing makes me want to commit suicide on the spot.
My muscles. You know how your muscles feel after a tough workout, when you’ve been sedentary for a long amount of time? That’s a normal lupus day. Flare days they feel like they are stretched so tight that they are going to snap like an old rubber band, but it will hurt more than getting smacked in the face with an unexpectedly broken violin string if they do. It feels like my body is held together by fraying strands of thread. Simultaneously it feels like huge ropes meant for sails on boats and heavy lifting. Hot and cold. Pulling me apart at the seams, and yet smothering me in awareness of their weight and pain.
UV lights. They are everywhere. Stores, work, home, the sun. And I am very photosensitive to them all. But I have no choice but to deal with all of those, daily. The problem with this is that they cause more flares. They cause the blemishes, rashes, breakouts. They increase the hair loss. They compound the problems I have, but I have to live within the UV world. Sunscreen is in everything I use to moisturize, for a reason. I don’t get the butterfly rash on my face, but I can tell that it’s waiting for me. Even a couple of hours in the sun make my nose and cheeks become incredibly red, and I breakout there constantly. As a child and teen I could sunbathe with no issues, oiled or not. In the last 5 years, even 30 minutes in the sun, with sunscreen and a hat, and I’m burned like I spent days on the beach without a drop of lotion or clothing. (And here I’m planning a beach vacation, I’ll get to that.) My eyes burn so badly at the end of each work day. By Friday I am ready to gouge them out myself. Sure, I could invest in blackout curtains and find a night job that’s lit only by candles… I’m sure that’s a viable option, for my family’s well-being as well.
Exhaustion. This is not tired, lazy, unmotivated, in need of a nap. I am talking complete and utter, “I cannot keep going. It’s so hard to breathe, think, live. I feel as if I am moving and thinking in slow motion. I have nothing left.” That kind of exhaustion. I sleep so hard and so deep that I am aware of nothing, unless I move or shift, then the pain wrenches me wide awake. And my nights are full of this deep bottomless sleep to I just made a pot of coffee with redbull instead of water and drank it all kind of awake. During normal non-flare nights, anything will wake me. Any noise, a light coming on somewhere, a creak, the wind changing directions. So this deep, nothing but the pain in my body can wake me sleep is not normal.
Depression is a lying beast. But when it has truth combined with its lies, it becomes a monster that is sometimes too hard to fight. I know I’m sick. I know there is no cure. I know it is shortening my time on this planet. I know it’s damaging the quality of the time I do have. It is destroying my body, not just under the surface, but in my own line of sight. It tells me I am hard to handle. Maybe even too hard to handle. It tells me that people that I love find me a burden. It tells me that friends and strangers are tired of hearing about my woes. It tells me that I will never make anyone understand the hellish cage I am trapped within, that is my own body. It tells me that this pain is now a part of my forever. It tells me that it’s only going to get worse. It tells me to make it easier on everyone else and just let go. It asks me if this pain is really worth the extra time? It asks me if I want to continue being a burden? Do I really want everyone I love to watch me deteriorate and die? It asks me just how much will be too much? It tells me to give up. Just give up. You don’t have to hurt anymore. You can stop this. You can let go. But my own voice is still strong enough to say no to this whispered demand. Because the pain will lessen again. I will be my version of okay again. I have so much left to live for, and going now is NOT an option. I hope that voice never fades.
I have three kids. I work in an office where other people have kids. I shop for food and clothes in the real world. I have friends that have kids, and jobs, and shop with the masses. No matter what, I am constantly subjected to one cold or another. The flu, a virus, bacterial crap. There is no avoiding this. And mix that fact with my lack of a properly functioning immune system, and you get a Goddess overcoming one thing or another, all of the time. I have had so many steroid shots I should look like the Hulk, but in a more flattering green tone. I have had full blown pneumonia 4 times in the last 3 years. They all started with a sore throat and a runny nose. My body is so busy fighting itself that all of the things it should be fighting are welcomed in with promises of tea and cake. What takes a normal body 3 days to overcome, has taken me the same time in weeks to finally dispose of.
I just keep going. Not always because I want to, but because I have to. I have three amazing little men that I brought into this world, and I WILL see them become men. I WILL see them learn, grow, thrive, explore, wonder, mature, discover, dream. I made myself that promise, and I do NOT break promises. I made myself a bucket list of things I want to do, see, discover, enjoy, and try. And my kids are mixed into a lot of those self-made promises. One of which is to play with them on a beach. And even though that few days in the sun are going to cost me, even though it’s going to hurt me physically, it will heal me mentally.
Because I wish to dance in the sunlight, while I still can. And trust me when I say, you will see me dance.
On My Kids Gender Roles
When my oldest son was 3, I became pregnant. Oh the excitement, expectations, hopes, dreams, plans, and preparation that came along with that news. To prepare my oldest, I bought a baby doll. I could show him how to hold the baby, change its diaper, and prepare him for how often Mommy was going to be totting his new sibling around.
He became obsessed with this doll. Always having to sleep with it in his room. Helping me feed it, cuddle it, etc. He was stoked to become a big brother.
But then, his sibling didn’t make it. Neither did the next three.
But he held onto that baby doll. And then he saw a Barbie doll that he had to have. Mainly because of her Sponge Bob outfit. And he kept her until he was about 7, and his “GI Joes” dismembered her. He eventually gave the baby doll to the Salvation Army. Â He also had a tea set that he adored, and threw many a tea party with. Which he grew out of over time.
My middle son has pretty much been gender neutral on toys. He hadn’t shown a preference one way or another, until he discovered Thomas the Train and Toy Story. And those have pretty much been his main obsession since. With a few additions since, but those will be explained soon enough.
My youngest son. He has been very effeminate in his toy, movie, and dress up choices, especially since he turned about 18 months old. This was discovered due to McDonald’s not listening to gender options for the kids’ happy meals one evening.
All 3 boys got a Barbie related toy. And that’s when something really came to light. My middle son refused to remove his pink Barbie bracelet for weeks, not for baths, bed, or school. It was his “pretty”, and you could have it over his dead body. I threw a baby shower for a good friend of mine, and one of the games called for a baby doll to diaper. The middle took possession of the baby doll immediately after the party, and hasn’t given her up since.
Then the youngest started showing his effeminate choices. He has always had a shoe fetish. And then he discovered my shoes. He loves heels, platforms, and anything that shows off toes. When he catches me doing my makeup, I have to do his as well. He loves having his hair played with. And this past Christmas, I walked up and down every toy aisle to see what the babies “took to”, for gift ideas. The youngest about lost his damn mind when we hit the girl aisle. He tried to launch himself from the cart when he caught sight of the Monster High Dolls.
His favorite movies and cartoons are Dora the Explorer, My Little Pony, and anything Tinkerbell. (The middle would rather watch Diego over Dora, but he adores the other two shows as well.)
For Christmas the middle got a cooking set, which the littlest took over right away. The youngest got many a My Little Pony and a Monster High Doll. He brushed her hair obsessively for the next week. That girl will never know a tangle, let me tell you.
The Youngest brushing the day away.
He’s taken over any bracelet I leave anywhere. He and the middle love bead necklaces. And they both cried because I bought them Cars sandals (as they had their sizes) and not the Tinkerbell ones (not in the middles size, and I wasn’t going to hurt him by getting them for the youngest and not him too.) Their Grandma let them pick out some house slippers, which the middle decided on the Cars ones, and the little was going to get the Disney Princess ones, but he’s in full copycat mode, so he chose identical Cars ones. (Ahhh, sibling rivalry at its finest.)
The youngest is also the overly dramatic of the three. If ever he were to be described in a fictional book, he would be the arm over the eyes, fainting, helpless, damsel in distress. Honestly. I love the midget to death. That is just who, and how, he is. He is my little drama king.
This last week I decided to get a professional pedicure. I’ve been doing my own for the last four years. So it was a nice change to let someone else hunch over my feet and perfect my toes. I had the oldest and middle with me. The oldest found a chair, and got lost in video game land on his tablet within a few minutes. During this, I was trying to find a color that I liked from the hundreds of colors in the case. My middle demanded blue, because he wanted his toenails done too. (We have learned in the last 6 months to never leave polish within the younger twos line of sight, as they will pedicure the hell outta each other.) I told him I would do his blue when we got home, but this was an expensive treat for mommy.
(A note here, my middle is autism spectrum, so he gets incredibly uncomfortable in any given situation, familiar or not.)
He spazzed when I sat in the chair and put my feet into the BLUE (what set him off) water. He stood at the other end of the salon, and inched closer over the next 20 minutes. Eventually I showed him that I was okay. He then asked to watch “Ponies” on my phone (Netflix, you’re all a bunch of geniuses for making it a mobile app) and got lost in the show.
Then the pedicurists’ 8 year old son came over to see what the middle was watching, and proceeded to tell me that my son was weird for watching a “girl” show, and that he needed to watch something “for boys”. His mom didn’t say a word, and became overly zealous in perfecting the French tips. So I asked him what made him think that only girls could watch ponies, and he admitted that he didn’t know. Then he stood with the middle and watched the rest of the show. He thought rainbow dash was cool. His mom didn’t seem to appreciate this.
And it got me to thinking about how we as parents place our kids into these set gender roles. We teach our children what they can and cannot like, want to be, etc., by doing so. I don’t limit my boys; they are allowed to like what they like. My goal for them is to help them become happy, self-aware, independent, confident adults.
If they want to be girls, boys, straight, gay, bi, vegetarian, vegan, Christian, Pagan, Atheist, wear dresses, suits, be nudists, whatever! These are THEIR choices to make, to fully realize the person THEY are.
They are not meant to conform to what the world expects of them. They have their own goals, dreams, and desires; and as their Mommy, it is my job to SUPPORT them in discovering these aspects of themselves. I will never limit my children’s many potentials and try to make them fit a mold they will never feel comfortable in.
Should any of them desire “girl things”, then they shall have it. Their laughter, smiles, hugs, and acceptance of themselves are all that matter to me. Their Gender Role does not.
I’m not here to judge them; I’m here to love them.
On Aging
For my 25th birthday, I discovered that aging was catching up with me. I went with the discovery of my first white hair as a birthday gift quite gracefully, I think. I didn’t rage, cry all day, or pull it out. I bought hair dye and went on with my day.
Over the next 5 years, one hair turned to about 10. I took that in stride as well.
Then for my 30th birthday, I discovered a white eyebrow hair. That one pricked my pride a bit. One has turned to 3, that keep coming back, no matter how bloody violent I am about removing them.
My 34th birthday is just around the corner, and a few days ago I discovered a white eyelash. What. The. Hell.
No matter where I part my hair, you will find at least 5 white hairs. And I mean white. They are not silver. They are not gray. All of these are bright white.
I mean, I’m thankful that my hair will make me one hot chick when I’m an old lady.
I’ve always wanted to bleach my hair bright white. Any video game character that I create, always has bright white hair, when choosing hair color is a choice. Heck, most of my childhood, I wanted to be Rogue from X-Men, because she has red hair with a bright white chunk right up front.
How hot is that?!
I’m not handling this eyelash thing at all well. I didn’t expect that one at all. I don’t even want to think about where the next white hair will come up at. Nuh uh.
I can’t dye my hair anymore either. I don’t know if it’s one of the two autoimmune disorders, or what, but even dye is burning my scalp now, so dyeing isn’t an option. Which sucks! Not just for the white hair issue, but because I love trying different colors out.
So my hair needs to just go all white. I’m done with it half assing it. Go big or go home. Er. Something like that.
Also, my oldest added two years to my age the other day. I can ground him for that right?
This getting older thing is for the birds.
6 Movies That Have Ruined Me For Life
I say this in a sardonic way, as these movies still rate in my favorites, and I wouldn’t give them up for anything. But I also know that these movies helped me create expectations about real life, that will probably never happen. Maybe. (A Goddess can hope all she wants, so back off!)
1. Practical Magic
Where hasn’t this movie ruined me? The house, the hair, the magic, the sisterly bond, the crazy but cool aunts, the clothes, the town? I would kill for that house. If I could get away with it. And the person deserved death. And karma wouldn’t come back to bite me for it. That is my dream house. That kitchen alone is swoon worthy. I still have hair envy for Sandra’s hair. I cannot even explain how much I wish I had hair like that. And I don’t care if it is extensions and such. I still want. And being an only child (for the most part) I always have sibling need/jealousy. To have someone experience your life with you, bear witness to the major developments along the path, and then to have that someone to always go back to, that understands… Yeah. This movie has ruined me.
2. 10 Things I Hate About You
First off, I will forever be smitten with Heath Ledger. That will never end, even though he’s gone from this life. This movie has helped ruin my expectations of men. I will always want the wooing, the fun dates, the guy that chooses me over everything else that is offered to him. Who doesn’t want paint ball fights that lead to amazing kisses, and to be wooed by song in front of everyone and their gym teacher? And let’s not even get into my body issues when looking at Julia.
3. Hope Floats
The house is awesome, once again. So is Sandra’s hair. But that’s not ruined me for life. The leaving your cheating husband, going home and falling in love with it for once, managing to make long dormant dreams become a reality, finding love with the guy that never lost interest in you, who is also willing to stand up to you when your crazy gets in the way, helping your child overcome the harsh realities inherent in life, and learning to love yourself despite your obvious weaknesses and flaws? Yeah. None of my divorces ended that way. Also, I want that porch swing/bench badly.
4. Labyrinth
This movie has ruined many a life expectation, but I’ll keep this short. I want to attend a masquerade that is this bad ass. I don’t know if they are even a thing, but I want. WANT. I also want to attend this, dressed as she is, with my love dressed as he is. But you try to get a guy into leggings nowadays, see how well that works out for you.
5. Mr & Mrs Smith
Oh boy. This one. Finding someone you mesh well enough with to pull of tandem shooting THAT hot? Want. To wake up to him bringing you coffee after a romantic/sexy dance in the rain? Want. The house is also awesome. But the one thing (besides the tandem shooting) that gets me every time? I SO WANT TO DRIVE MY MINIVAN THE WAY SHE DOES. I cannot even begin to explain. I fucking CRAVE doing anything remotely that kick ass with a vehicle. I cannot watch this movie and then drive anywhere immediately after. The kids look at me all crazy when I do.
6. P.S. I Love You
Can you say romance, from beyond the grave? Mmhm. He loves her so much, that he’s doing all he can to help her live after he’s gone. That’s true love buddy. And good luck to any man who could ever pull that off. It’s an unrealistic expectation to the extreme. And how realistic their relationship was and wasn’t? Ugh. How do you explain to a guy that yes, argue with me, but also come back to me telling me that you love me, adore me, can’t bloody breathe without me? Because, you know, all we want is to be adored, even when highly pissed off. Yeah. Sure. That’ll happen. Just like when you plan out how to help me get over losing you by sending me on a trip halfway across the world, with money that we really don’t have for you to pull it off with. Also, do a sexy and hilarious dance for me to bring my mood back around. Because you guys do that, the movie says so! Oh, and for the love of God, someone get me the shoes she wears on her birthday.
