When to Just Let it Go

Sometimes, I think I'm too much of a hard ass; I've had an ongoing issue with my daughter's teacher this year over the fact that she is very religious and very conservative, and I'm...well...NOT.  This teacher insists on injecting her political views into day to day classroom conversation; I suspect she has not been challenged on this for the simple fact that most parents in our extremely conservative area either agree with her, so see no reason to question this practice; or they simply are too wrapped up in their own lives to care.

However, I fit into neither category.

I have been letting a lot of what is said slide, because, for the most part, she is an excellent teacher, and my daughter has done quite well with her.  However, yesterday, my oldest decided to argue with me regarding a point made, and one that I knew was neither accurate nor remotely correct.  Normally, I would have just simply told her it wasn't right, and given her the reference; but she sat there and debated me on it...even bet me $10 on it...just because Mrs. So and So "said".  Well, Mrs. So and So was wrong, and my daughter quickly lost $10.

The argument was over the English translation of the Bible, and how it came to be.  I have told my oldest quite some time ago about King Henry VIII and his battle with the Roman Catholic Church, and how he had authorized and funded the first English translation of the Bible meant for public use (it was, however, far from the first English translation - that had been accomplished in the 1380's by John Wycliffe).  So now comes a chapter in her Social Studies book, which states that the King James Version was the first widely distributed English version of the Bible...which is not exactly true.  In fact, it isn't true at all.  Of course, this led my oldest to pop off with: "But my mom said..."  And it was all downhill from there.

So here comes the oldest last night, and she tells me, "I thought you said King Henry VIII had the first English translation, and I told Mrs. So and So that, and she said, 'I don't think so,' and then showed me in our Social Studies book..." and on and on and on.  When she was done, I told her that was not true, which brought on the above bet, which she promptly lost; not only did I prove her book wrong, but I wrote down the entire time line of how the English translation of the Bible we know as the King James Version came to be. 

While I was in the middle of my crusade, one of my friends sent me a text, and when I explained what I was doing and why, I promptly got a text back that was the equivalent of: "why do you let that stupid shit bother you?"  And that's a good question...why did it bother me?  Why did I let something in an outdated 6th grade text book get me to the point of spending an hour and a half writing a detailed accounting of how the Bible got translated into English for a child who would probably not remember half of it by the next day?  Is it because I knew the book, and the teacher, were wrong, or was it because I was pissed that my child chose to challenge me because Mrs. So and So said so?  Was I really doing this to educate my child, or was I doing it to satisfy my own ego?

Simple answer...both.

On the one hand, I want my daughters to know the truth about certain things so they are able to make educated decisions about important issues, including religion, as they gain age and knowledge.  On the other, I also am not about to have someone telling my kids I don't know what I'm talking about, especially when I most certainly do.  This isn't the first time this teacher and I have been at odds over our ideologies, and I'm not saying she is any more biased in her beliefs than I am; however, I have always been of the mind that my children need to see and understand different, and even opposing, viewpoints, because that is how we learn to be more well rounded, and respectful, individuals.

This time, though, was different; not because of the topic, but because of the direct affront to my knowledge, and how I chose to impart that knowledge to my child.  I fully understand that I was getting the almost 12 year old's version of the story, and that version may be quite different than what actually took place, but the underlying indication was most definitely there: a point was made, my daughter challenged it based on something I had told her, my daughter was told point blank that I was wrong, and that challenge was brought home to me, which I not only met, but trumped, in no time flat.

Yet by the time I finished putting this time line, and all the subsequent references, footnotes, and miscellaneous, and utterly useless, information down on paper, I had calmed down significantly.  I called my daughter into my office and handed her the paper, at which time I told her that this was the actual history, but I did not expect her to use it to prove her teacher wrong; this was for her, and nothing else.  I explained that just as I did not like having my authority and knowledge questioned, her teacher would not, and that out of respect for her as a teacher, I didn't think it would be a good idea.  I then said that if it continued to be an issue, I would deal with it as an adult; it was my place to do so...not hers.

So now that I have proven my point, I will once again let something slide; no reason to make life hard for my daughter because I don't agree with a teacher.  However, I have a sneaking suspicion that it won't be long before I once again hear: "But my mom said..."

Meet the Cats

Anyone who knows me knows I have a rather eclectic mix of animals; cows who love cookies, goats, chickens, a turkey, a duck and a donkey; and three very spoiled dogs.  Add to this mix four cats, each with a unique personality that only adds to the craziness.

The oldest of the cats is Callie, and she is by far the crankiest.  She kind of reminds me of the poor cat out of the old Pepe LePew cartoons right after she falls into the barrel - all mangy, drippy and wheezy.  She spends most of her days curled up in a ball sleeping, unless she wakes up long enough to eat or hiss at one of the others, all of whom have learned to steer clear of the old bitch.  If I had any sense, I'd do the humane thing and have her put down, but she came to me via an old friend who is no longer part of this world; so instead, I just leave her alone and let her sleep away whatever life she has left.

Tinker, on the other hand, is probably the most "normal" of the cats.  She was part of a pair given to me, but unfortunately, her sister didn't survive kittenhood.  She is the most loving of the kitties; always willing to cuddle and purr for anyone offering an ear-scratch, and she loves to perch on your lap, your belly, your chest, or your keyboard...especially when you are right in the middle of something.  She is often the first thing I see in the morning, because she likes to wake me up by sitting on my chest and putting her nose right on mine.  Tinker is also the girls' favorite go to kitty when they have had a bad day, or gotten in trouble, or had their little egos bruised; she is constantly packed around and hugged on...and she doesn't mind a bit.

Squeegee is, by far, the most neurotic of the cats, and after what she's been through, why shouldn't she be?  A couple summers ago, my irrigation pump decided to croak, which meant I had to hand irrigate my pasture while waiting for the replacement.  Since I hadn't had to do this for a while, it required cleaning the ditch between the pond and the pasture, and this was accomplished via a DR Trimmer.  We have a lot of feral cats at my other place, and feral cats always mean feral kittens; well, as my friend was running the trimmer while I dammed up the water to go down the ditch, I happened to look up and see some movement in the grass right where he was at.  Sure enough, it was one of these kittens.  I knew it was going to die, so I found a nice soft spot in some grass where it could go in peace and left it alone.

A few days later, I was up at the place with my girls.  I was out in the pasture changing my corrugates when I hear: "Mom!  Guess what we found!"  Now I'm thinking an egg, or a snake, or a really weird bug.  They come booking out to where I'm at holding something, and when they get to me, they proudly show me...a kitten.  The same kitten I thought was going to die.  Well, of course, I couldn't leave anything with that much spirit, so it came home.  I gave it a few drops of penicillin, nursed it with a syringe, and put it to bed in a shoebox.  I told the girls not to get too attached to it, because it had been hurt pretty bad...and I told them that every day for two weeks, while the kitten, in turn, did just fine.

Two years later, this bipolar cat is as much a part of the family as any, and has even been named a class mascot.  She is definitely in her own little world; one minute she wants you to love on her, and the next, she gone like a bat out of hell.  She never stays out very long, preferring instead to hide under my bed...and for some reason, she hates the sound of the lawnmower...

Now Tick...he's the shit, and the shithead.  Tick is another casualty of having a ranch.  Every year ditch banks have to be burned, and that's what we were doing.  I had seen the cat run, but didn't think anything of it, until I heard this sound, and I thought...Oh, shit.  I climbed up to the edge of the burn, and found this little singed ball of orange fur.  He looked horrible and smelled worse, and when I picked him up, I could see he was maybe two weeks old; his eyes were just barely opened and his ears were still closed.  The fire had toasted the tip of his tail (which eventually fell off), and the tips of his ears.  There was an offer to put the baby out of his misery, but Isella started bawling, and guess what...

We had tried several names for him - Fuego, Smoky, Singe - but none really fit.  While the name game was going on, this little baby still have to be fed...every two hours...and he was a little pig.  After I'd get done feeding him, I'd put him down on his stomach, and his little belly would be so full his feet would barely touch the ground; he looked like a little tick.

And the name just kind of stuck.

What was so funny about this baby, other than his penchant for climbing my pant leg when he was hungry, was his attachment to my weenie dog, Polly.  From the day we brought him home, she mothered the hell out of this kitten.  She bathed him, cuddled him and moved him around.  For weeks, if any of the other cats got near him, she'd get very protective, growling and biting at them; Tick was her baby.  Eventually, she even began to nurse him, which made quite an interesting sight, to say the least.  Even now, a year later, she is still his "Mommy"; at night when she's curled up by my feet, I will feel him sneaking down under the covers to cuddle up by her.  Unfortunately, he also still tries to nurse, and that is one sound I don't want to hear at 2 a.m., so with one swift motion of my foot, I kick them both out of the bed.  He will then sit there, one ear laid over, with this look of total indignation, before he goes thumping off to another part of the house, while Polly makes her way back down to her spot by my feet.

As I've said, he is not a quiet cat; in fact, it is a good thing I feed him, because there is no way in hell he could sneak up on anything not totally blind and/or deaf.  Because of the damage to his tail, he doesn't walk like a normal cat; instead he "thunks" everywhere...even on carpet.  You can hear him all over the house..."thunk thunk thunk"...and when he jumps up on anything, there is no sense of grace involved.  His tail is stuck in this permanently deformed question mark; no matter how hard he tries, he can't hold it up straight. 

Despite it all, though, he loves to go play outside (so does Tinker; Squeegee runs and hides the minute you open the door).  It is hilarious to watch him beg to go out; he stands up on his back legs as tall as he can pawing repeatedly at window, and it sounds like a little fan; bapbapbapbapbap; and he will not quit until you let him out.  Now when he wants back in, he does the same thing.  He will stand there, tail cocked off to one side, and just beat at the window until you let him in.  Then he thunks off, usually to go see if there's something in his food dish.  To say he is a character would be a gross understatement.

Each of my cats, just like every one of my animals, brings something special to my existence (and not just  fur).  Even on my worst days, I can count on one of my cats to do something to make things a little better, just as I can can always count on my cows to dig in my pocket for a cookie.  It is these little things done by my animals, and my kids, that make my life incredible.  So here's to my crazy cats and all they give me...even if I do have to clean up an occasional hairball.

The Younger Generation

I often tell some of my closest male friends how much I admire the fact that they work hard and sacrifice a lot of themselves to make sure their children learn the right lessons or that their kids have a good life.  More often than not when I share this sentiment, it is brushed off; they don't expect compliment or reinforcement simply because they are only doing what is rightly their responsibility.

However, part of the reason I do it is because of what I see on a day to day basis, and that is young men (and to a much lesser extent, young women) who feel no sense of obligation or responsibility to do anything, including support their children.  They have been raised with a sense of: "I breathe; therefore, I am entitled", and they exercise this sense of entitlement on a regular basis.  I have actually had some get nearly irate with me, because I will tell them they don't qualify for certain services or programs - they honestly believe it is my job to hand them whatever they want, that I (speaking for society in general) am somehow responsible for taking care of them, and they have no responsibility in taking care of themselves.  Of all the things I deal with, this one aspect is probably the most frustrating.

I have heard before how we have created this generation of: "Me, first!", and I believe it.  We have become so fearful of damaging a child's "delicate" self esteem that instead of building character in our children, we have turned them into, for lack of a better phrase, a bunch of spoiled brats.  I often use the example of the ribbons at the award ceremonies - when every child gets the same ribbon regardless of whether he (or she) showed up every day, practiced hard, and always played his (or her) best, or if he (or she) simply went at it half assed, knowing a reward was waiting, whether earn or not.  Not only does this diminish the achievement of the one who did everything right, teaching him that all his hard work was pointless, so why bother; but it is a disservice to the one who did nothing at all, because he learns that he doesn't have to work for what he wants, because it is going to be there anyway.  Not only that, but it doesn't force the latter to learn how to deal with disappointment, nor to explore whatever ability he might possess which will provide him with that sense of self satisfaction.  Face it...we cannot all be great athletes, scholars, musicians, or writers, be we all have something which sets us apart from everyone else.

A lot of these kids also have never been held accountable for their actions; many who are my age or older remember getting a swat on the ass when we misbehaved, and no one thought twice about it.  Now, a spanking is considered child abuse.   If we acted up at school, not only were we subject to the corrective actions of the administration, but also the corrective actions of our parents (or in my case, grandparents and uncle).  However, if a child acts up now, then the parents often lay the blame on everyone else; the school system, the teachers, the friends, or the phase of the moon, rather than look at their child as being the source of their child's problem.  (I have become rather notorious for telling misbehaving children to sit down and knock "it" off; more so than not, I get a look from an often very young parent saying, how...dare...I...chastise....her...kids!  Anyone who knows me also knows just how far this look goes with me.)

To a lesser extent, I blame our every burgeoning mental health industry; I cannot tell you how many times I have heard the phrase: "I can't work because I have (insert favorite three letters of the alphabet here)."  I hear about their OCD, ADHD, BP, PAD, ODD, and whatever other infirmity they can come up with (other than L-A-Z-Y).  I'm not saying these disorders aren't real, or that they don't have an immense effect on people's lives, because I know for a fact they do.  I have friends who fight depression on a daily basis, but the difference is that even though the depression is very real, they also know it has to be dealt with because their lives require it, and they do just that; whether through medication, yoga, herbs or simple determination (in fact, some I know will put off even getting help because they are ashamed of having anything wrong at all). Yet for these kids, this isn't the case.  For them, it is not just an excuse, but a badge of honor.  It is so easy for them to find a doctor who will tell them what they want to hear, throw some pills at them, and let them be on their way; again, this trivializes the disorders for those who truly have them and need help, and teaches others that if they don't want to do anything, just go get diagnosed with something and they are set.

I read somewhere that for the first time in our history, we are raising a generation less educated than the one before it, and I can believe that.  Every generation has had its share of those who do nothing with their lives but coast through, looking for the next handout (my own mother is case in point); but this generation is different, and it is a monster of our own creation.  In the effort of pop psychology to keep our kids from being "damaged" by failure or disappointment, or by "expecting too much" from them, the incentive to achieve and do well has disappeared.  In turn, not only do they have no respect for others, but in reality, none for themselves.  I, personally, would not want to live with the idea of someone else taking care of me (in fact, my ego has gotten me in trouble once or twice, like pulling out my sutures by loading hay on a trailer two days after surgery...oops).  I also have friends who, despite being sicker than hell, will ingest large amounts of cold medicine and force their way through the day, rather than burden someone else with their responsibilities.  But this generation has grown up thinking it is "special", and expecting to be taken care of.

I don't think the entire generation is that way, either; I see a lot of really, really good kids, raised by really good parents, including those I express admiration to (and who basically thing I am off my rocker for pointing it out).  I just hope there is enough of the good to balance out the not so good; for every one who comes in telling me how tough he (or she) has it, there is another who is working his (or her) ass off to make it through college or trade school so he (or she) can be self sufficient.  I am also not saying that we don't all need a little help from time to time, but that we show our children to seek this out only as a necessity, not as a way of life.  They are lessons I hope to impart on my own children; disappointment is part of life, but learning how deal with it is what makes us better people, and what you want in life means a whole lot more if you work for it and earn it, than if someone just hands it to you.  And when I tell them "no", it isn't because I don't love them, but because I do, and I have my reasons (which they don't always need to know), and that's the end of the conversation.  (From the reactions I often get when I tell these young adults "no", I seriously don't think they've heard it enough.)

So when I say to my friends, male and female alike, that I admire them for working hard and setting examples for their kids, I'm not just blowing smoke.  Again, I have my reasons, even if I don't always explain them.

Who Gave You the Right to Speak for God?

Not long after the earthquake in Japan, Glenn Beck, in his infinite wisdom, stated on his radio show that perhaps the earthquake was a result of people not following the 10 Commandments.  Aside from being a completely asinine assumption, it highlighted one of the biggest issues I have with fundamentalist religion, and that is every disaster, natural or otherwise, must somehow be a punishment from God.

Beck is far from the first to make a statement of this nature; last year, Pat Robertson pointed out that the people of Haiti had made a pact with the devil in 1796 (failing to mention that it was done to relieve them of the oppressive rule of the French, which was as close to living in Hell as one can get), so perhaps the earthquake was a result of that pact.  Rush "Maybe John Edwards wants a woman who does more with her mouth than talk" Limbaugh claimed the earthquake was punishment for Obamacare. When I hear someone make a comment along this line, whether it be Glenn Beck, or Pat Robertson or Rush Limbaugh (Rush?  Really?), I often wonder just how well they really know the Bible they so claim to follow, or if they really know it at all.  (Notice I'm not touching Fred Phelps - that asshole is in a league all his own.)

It is true that the Old Testament was full of punishment; you looked at someone wrong and you were liable to end up nothing more than ashes in a pile.  Cities were burned, first born died, civilizations were razed, and every living creature on earth, save those in a floating boat, drowned, so yes, punishment was a very real factor in the OT way of life.  But something happened around 2,000 years ago that was suppose to change all of that, and that was the coming of Jesus Christ.  He was suppose to have brought a new way, a new meaning to the world where this sort of atonement would no longer be required.  He was suppose to bring peace; his blood became the sacrifice and he was the way, the truth and the light.

So what am I missing?

I'm sure someone will look at this and tell me that as an atheist, I can't possibly understand, and that person would be right...I don't.  I cannot justify in my own mind how they can say "God is punishing", when Jesus supposedly bore the sins of the world on his own shoulders.  I mean, didn't he die, so we, in a spiritual sense, would not have to?  Or is this simply suppose to be of God's own picking and choosing, and people like Beck are the chosen?  I'm sorry, but that makes no sense.

And there is another problem with these assumptions; I have heard that the disasters in Japan and China are a result of their "godless" beliefs.  While it is true that the majority of Chinese and Japanese are not Christian, that isn't the case in Haiti, or Peru, or even Louisiana.  Haiti and Peru are predominately Catholic; in fact, over 90% of Haitians claim Catholicism...so does the argument then become that Catholics aren't true Christians?  Where do we draw the line with the: "God must be punishing them for something!" rhetoric?

What really angers me about people like Beck and Robertson (and Dobson and Osteen and so on and so forth) is that they diminish true Christianity; if I believed in false prophets, these people would strike me as such.  While I am not a believer, I know people who are (one of my best friends, as a matter of fact), and I have never once heard them pass this kind of judgment on another.  In fact, the ones I know have been the  first to offer whatever assistance they could to those who have been struck by a disaster of whatever sort, whether next door, or halfway around the world.

Yet this is not recognized; instead, people like the ones above become the faces of what the others see as Christianity, and instead of realizing the good, they resent the bad.  Honestly, if you had lost family in Japan, and you heard Beck say that maybe it happened because we weren't following the 10 Commandments, followed by the phrase: "I'm just saying", would you think, oh! He must be right!  Or would you be more likely to want to find him and tell him to go fuck himself?  I know what would happen if it were me, and I would not be nearly so nice about it.

And what saddens me is there are people who actually believe this; who follow him and Robertson (among others) blindly, without question.  They would rather be told what the Bible says, instead of picking it up, dusting it off, opening it up, and finding out for themselves.  I have always found it amusing that as an atheist, I know more about Christianity (and religion in general) than a lot who claim the faith, and I'm not alone;  a Pew Forum study found that those who identified as atheist or agnostic were often far more knowledgeable about what was in the Bible than those who identified as Christian.  When I took the test, and not just the little 10 question quiz, I nailed every question.  However, the average Christian scored somewhere between 50 and 60%...doesn't that strike you as odd?  (The fact that I am a Biblical scholar not withstanding, of course.)

At any rate...

Personally, one of the best things I think Christians can do is actually find out what the book they believe in says for themselves, instead of letting people like Beck tell them, and then talk for themselves, rather than let people like Robertson talk for them.

Perhaps then earthquakes wouldn't be punishment, and Christianity as a whole would be a lot better off.

Why sell yourself short?

It has been awhile since I have visited my blog, and I have been told from more than a few I should start it back up, although I have no idea why my random musings would be of any interest to anyone but me.  Yet here I am...

A friend (whom I consider to be a good one, and with whom I have had some incredible conversations, which I am missing greatly) sent me something that he had written to look over and offer an opinion on, and I did.  I also told this person that I thought he had a great deal of potential.  This, in turn, was met with quite a bit of resistance, as if it was unfathomable that there was indeed a talent there not yet recognized.  Our exchange ended when I asked this very question: "Why sell yourself short?"


It is the same conversation I have frequently with my oldest child; she has so much going for her, but she also has a hard time believing it.  For some reason I don't understand, since her talent is not the same as my talent, she figures she has no talent, no special ability, at all.

Everyone knows I write, and not only do I write, but I write everything imaginable.  I write humor, satire, political, business, religious, erotica, fiction...if I ever focused down, I could probably make a fortune (romance is out, though; it's stupid and not happening in this lifetime).  The fact of the matter is I have always been able to write, and I have always written - it is just what I do.  My mind formulates everything in words; the same way a photographer can capture an amazing scene in the every day mundane, or an artist can portray an entire emotion with a stroke of a brush, I can turn a blank piece of paper into whatever I want it to be simply with the words I choose to put on it, and make my audience see what I want them to see, and how I want them to see it. Furthermore, I can produce an entire piece of work in the same time it would take most, even accomplished writers, to produce one chapter.  Call it what you want; a talent or a God given gift, but whatever it is, it is something I possess.

So what does this little bit of ego blowing have to do with my daughter?  Simply put, she can't write like I do, and she cuts herself down for that one simple thing, without ever acknowledging everything else she can do.  For instance, my mother was an incredibly gifted artist who could have worked for Disney, had the drugs and alcohol and other torments not consumed her life.  I see this very gift blossoming in not just one, but both of my children; both are highly artistic and creative, and I've tried to nurture that potential.

But it isn't writing.

And, truth be known, my oldest daughter can write...when she takes the time and puts her mind to doing it well.  Of course she can't write like I do, but in her frustration at pointing out that I am a prodigy (every chance she gets), she forgets that while the above is true, and I have always just been able to do this, I also have 27 years on her, and I couldn't write at 11 the same way I do at 38.  Not only that, but some of the most accomplished authors are those who have had to work for that accomplishment - the words don't come as easily, but they do come eventually, and while it make take them longer to make the vision in the mind meet the words on the paper, it does happen.  As I tried to explain to my friend, who was lamenting the fact that it took a long time to put together what was meant to be said, it isn't the length of time it takes you to do it, but whether you are proud of it when it's done, and he very well should have been.


Besides, like I tell my daughter, a gift is only a gift if you use it, as is evidenced by my mother, and, to a lesser extent, me.  We were both born with these extraordinary abilities, but my mother died without ever letting hers take her where it could have.  As for me, I use mine, but not nearly to the extent I should; sometimes this becomes a burden, as I am often reminded by the well meaning that I "could be doing so much more with it"; to which I once retorted: "Spend a week in my mind, and let's see what you do with it."  (Needless to say, that exchange ended rather quickly, but it's true; my mind writes everything, and sometimes it is hard to sort it all out.)

I guess my point is that to cut yourself down simply because you don't have the same talent or ability as someone else, or if you do, possibly not to the same extent, is just not fair, because you are failing to recognize what you do have, even if it is nothing more than the ability to be a good person.  I try to explain to my daughter that she doesn't have to be like me to be special, and at some point, she will realize her own unique person; but no matter how hard I work to impart this particular bit of wisdom to her, I am also figuring out that she will have to discover this for herself...and I hope she does.

Of course, I have also told her she shouldn't want to be like me, because I can be extremely short tempered, cranky, moody, and sometimes downright miserable.  In fact, it has been scientifically proven that people who are highly intelligent and highly gifted are more prone to psychosocial problems, mental instability, manic and clinical depression; alcoholism amd drug addiction; and sometimes sociopathic behaviors, because our minds never shut down; even when we sleep, they are constantly going...it never stops.  While there are medications to curb this, it also dulls the very thing that makes us who we are, and I personally don't like that sensation of being "dulled down".  I guess with every blessing, a little curse must fall.


But, as often happens with a child her age, just about everything I say goes in one ear and out the other...or at least I think it does.  Then again, maybe it doesn't, and maybe somewhere in the rolled eyes and exasperated sighs, she is actually retaining a little of what I tell her, and maybe someday, it will all surface and she will become the very person I already know she is...an incredible young lady of whom I am very proud.


Until then, I guess I will just have to remind her it really is "i" before "e", except after "c".

Too many times it seems, as I have stated previously, we are suppose to take responsibility for the bad and give God the credit for the good; however, there is one time where this sense of twisted logic does not come into play, and that is when someone loses a baby.  I have heard it said more than once to parents who are in the midst of mind numbing grief because they have lost a child that these things happen for a reason, and God must have had a plan.

The sad thing is that I don't think the person who is offering this sentiment as a means of comfort realizes how this only makes the loss hurt even worse; no one wants to think that a good and loving God would willingly put anyone through this kind of torture.  While I have never had to endure this first hand, I cannot believe there is an equivalent to losing a child, especially when you have wanted and hoped for this little thing to come into your life, only to have it yanked from you, sometimes with no explanation.

Not only that, but the concept of a plan loses its cohesiveness when put into perspective; why is it that good people who want nothing more to be parents find themselves unable to conceive, or worse, end up losing a baby, while some argument for forced sterilization spawns another child he has no intention of supporting, or pops out her 8th drug addicted ward of the state?  Where is the reasoning behind this?  What, exactly, is the plan?

Perhaps the reason this is said is because the person standing by witnessing the grief doesn't know what else to say; death in any circumstance is hard to deal with, and people often look to whatever faith they have to help them endure.  But often when one is dealing with the death of someone else's child, then his own faith is questioned and challenged, and he seeks to reaffirm his beliefs by conveying that God wouldn't have done this without a reason...right??!!

Truth is, at least in my mind, that there really is no reason and there is no plan; it simply just happens.  It is an unfortunate fact that sometimes those who deserve the tragedies of life the least are the ones who get hit the hardest by them, and that includes babies and those who lose them.  Nobody ever wants to go through this kind of heartbreak, but, unfortunately, some will.  I guess the best we can do is to not offer thoughts of plans and reasons (or that at least you still have...; having one child never compensates for the loss of another.  The void is still there, and is still as painful), but to simply say, I'm sorry, and I'm here for you.

There is nothing on this earth that will ever take the place of just being a friend.

The Question of "Free Will"

One of the biggest issues I struggle with in terms of Christianity is the concept of "free will".  I know what it is, and I know how it plays a role in religion, but that doesn't mean I understand it fully, nor do I get why those who do not have it are still subjected to the consequences of the actions of those who do, and this is one of the things that really made me question faith and religion altogether.

We all know the theory behind "free will"; Adam and Eve exercised it when they chose to eat the fruit from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, and in this exercise of free will, they were disobedient and subsequently expelled from the Garden of Eden.  Fair enough; to adults screw up and pay the price for their choice.  But my problem is this:  what about those who do not have conscious access to free will?  Where is their protection until they do?

I have had this conversation with members of my group mainly about how it pertains to children, and my question has always been if God is suppose to be benevolent and loving, then why do children get born into poverty, why do they get beaten, why do they get molested and why do they die, often at the hands of those who are suppose to protect them?  I have been told, in the greatest of faith, that it is because of our disobedience to God and because of our insistence on free will that the human race as a whole is subject to the punishment, and that includes the most defenseless among us.  As an adult, I am perfectly willing to make my own choices, for whatever they are worth, and accept the outcome of those choices; however, a child does not have that right to choice.

A child does not choose to be born to a drug addict, or to be born in Africa, or to be abandoned in a dumpster, or to get cancer.  A four year old will not opt to be molested by her mother's boyfriend; nor will a 9 year old say "yes" to becoming a toy for her stepfather, as well as becoming pregnant by him.  No two year old I know would choose to be murdered by her mother, and an 8 year old is not going to ask to be stuffed into a suitcase.  In short, these children do not have the free will so often touted as the cause for human misery.  So where is God for these kids?  Doesn't the Bible say, blessed are the children?  If children are a gift and a blessing, shouldn't there be something in the contract that states they will be free from disease and torment and death until they are old enough to exercise the free will the rest of us are held accountable for?

The other issue I have with "free will" is that it is perfectly acceptable to blame "free will" when we screw up, but when we do or receive something good, we are immediately suppose to give God the credit for it.  I have heard it more than once; someone gets in trouble or does something wrong, it is the fault of free will (and Satan), but if a person receives a gift or a promotion, then that's from God.

Really?  Why?  Why doesn't "free will" play a part in the good as well as the bad?  If we have the free will to fuck up our lives, don't we also have the free will to fix them?  Yes, we have the free will to snort that line, but we also have the free will to enter rehab (unless, of course, it is court ordered).  We may have the choice to bounce from job to job, but we also have the choice to stick it out, bust our ass and work our way up.  We can decide to have unprotected sex and breed senselessly, or we can decide to use condoms and birth control and not bring another unwanted baby into this world. 

The truth is we do have free will, but we also have the ability decide if we are going to use it in a positive or negative fashion, and as far as I'm concerned, God really has nothing to do with it.  In reality, free will is nothing more than our ethics, our conscience, and our knowledge of right and wrong, and if free will is going to be the reason for our punishment, then it should also be the factor behind our reward, and those who cannot exercise it should not be punished for it.

There is a major difference between the religious and the not so much (ok...not at all), and that is where we look for inner strength when our lives end up turning inside out.  I have had conversations with two good friends; one who is a believer and one who is not, about where each found the strength to not just go on, but to actually move in a different direction and to change things for the better.  All three of us, my two friends and I, have had our fair share of personal world altering events, and each one of us has had to work hard to put things right again.  We are all in different stages of this journey, but our approaches to dealing with our lives are substantially different.

If there is one thing that defines atheists, aside from the obvious lack of belief, it is that we know if we fuck up, its our own goddamn fault.  There is no God or Satan or Heaven or Hell directing our lives; if something goes wrong, we know that 9 times out of 10, we did it to ourselves.  Yeah, there are things that occur to mess up our existence which happen to be our of our control, but this is rarely the case; most of the time, we were just being stupid.  The flip side is that we aren't willing to share credit with some unknown entity when we get it figured out.  This isn't to say that we don't pull bits and pieces and whole chunks of support and encouragement from those around us, but the decision to actually put it to good use is ours alone.

The religious, on the other hand, often (not always) think everything happens for a reason, and a lot of times the bad things that do crop up are tests of faith.  This gets tricky in the fact that a lot Christians are not going to make the same mistakes that some of the rest of us do - they aren't going to sneak that one last drink before trying to drive home, or punch someone in the face for some offhand comment, requiring the other person to get 10 stitches in his lip - but that doesn't mean Christians are immune to bad decision making.  I know more than a few who have stayed in horrid marriages because that's what they believe God told them to do, or they try to suppress who they are and end up leading lives that are a lie, which often incites depression, anger and shattered families.

Either way, the situations are tough, and they take a lot of work to repair and to heal, and to heal, we need strength.

My one friend is convinced her strength will ultimately come from her faith in God, and from the faith of those around her.  Of course, I'm no help in the faith department, but I am also not going to knock hers.  She has been put through the wringer repeatedly, and yet she never gives up in her determination to keep going.  She really believes deep in her heart that God is going to see her through all the trials and tribulations she has been facing, and if that helps her find her way back to herself, then more power to her.  My shoulder is hers whenever she needs it, on the off chance God happens not to be around that day.

My other friend found his in being a parent; at some point he realized no one else was going to step up and be a father to this child he had created, and, therefore, it was time he did.  In the process, he has not only become a damn good father, but an incredible man (although he swears the letters D, A, and D are being replaced with A, T, and M; oh, the joys of parenthood).  He is fully willing to give credit to those who helped him to get where he is now, but he also worked his bloody ass off as well, and still does.

Me...my strength came from a weakness; I got sick.  God didn't cause the ulcers to erupt in my stomach or my gallbladder to go bad; years of burying stress, anger and misery and eating shitty food did that.  Getting sick forced me to change a lot about my life; not just about what I ate, but how I looked at things.  I topped the scales at 180 pounds in April, which I realized wasn't pretty on a 5' frame.  But as the weight started to come off, I started to feel better - a lot better.  I had lost 35 pounds by the time I had surgery to repair some of the damage; by that time, people had really started to notice and tell me how much better I looked, and how I seemed happier.  After the surgery, I decided to keep it up, and I've lost 50 pounds altogether, and I'm in better shape than I was at 20 (and I'm in better shape than a lot of 20 year olds, so please TAKE NOTE).   For the first time in years, I feel good, and I'm happy, and it is helped me to take steps to address other issues in my life and deal with them for the better.

The other thing that gave me strength was reestablishing friendships I thought long gone, as well as making a few new connections; I had forgotten how it feels to laugh so hard at what is sometimes the stupidest shit in the world, and how a conversation about ill-fitting undies can take on a life of its own.  It's wonderful to know these people again, while learning about others.  I'm sure someone will say God brought these people into my life, but last time I checked, God didn't create Facebook.

Strength is what you make it, and you have to discover where to find it.  We all have it, and now it is time to make good use of it...all of it.

The same thing has happened twice this year, and it proves that we have taken political correctness way too far in this country.  The first happened in May when kids in one California school were chastised for wearing shirts with the American flag on Cinco de Mayo, and the second happened this past week when a boy was told to remove the American flag from his bicycle.

http://www.nydailynews.com/news/national/2010/05/06/2010-05-06_california_kids_blasted_for_wearing_american_flag_shirts_on_cinco_de_mayo.html

http://www.fox40.com/news/headlines/ktxl-americanflagbike11122010,0,3045879.htmlstory

I'm sorry (actually, I'm not), but this is bullshit, especially when the reason turns out to be the same in both cases, and that reason is because people whose heritage stems from a different country are offended.

In the case in California, some Hispanic students complained because they thought the kids who wore the shirts with the American flags on them were "insensitive" to a day that was special in Mexico; however, there's a problem with that...the holiday isn't a national Mexican holiday, has very little to do with Mexican independence (that is celebrated on September 16, but Cinco de Mayo is a lot easier to drink to than diez y seis de septiembre), and it isn't widely celebrated in Mexico.  Cinco de Mayo represents the victory of the Mexican army over the French at the Battle of Puebla in 1862, and it is still celebrated in the state of Puebla, but that's as far as it goes.  Yet it has become big business in the United States, and now it seems at the expense of our own flag.

The second incident stemmed from complaints, again, about how it was offensive to be able to fly the American flag on the back of a bicycle when the Mexican flag couldn't be brought to school.  Are you fucking kidding me?  Last time I checked, I don't live in Mexico, I live in the United States.  I don't go to Mexico and expect to be allowed to fly the American flag everywhere (and I don't expect translators, either; I speak Spanish fluently), and I don't see why the Mexican flag should be allowed to take precedence over our own flag here;  it infuriates me that we have become such a nation of pussies that we cannot take a stand for what that flag represents.  And what angers me even more is that the people complaining the loudest most likely weren't born in Mexico...they were born here, in the United States, which entitles them to the best this country has to offer, including the right to enjoy their heritage.

I am not trying to be racist, and I have no problem with the celebration of Mexican/Hispanic culture; but the celebration of this culture, or any culture, should not supersede the homogeneity that United States was meant to be.  We are a melting pot, not a bunch of little side dishes all demanding equal footing at the buffet table, and our flag represents this homogeneity.  When we start teaching our children that this is no longer the case, and, in fact, start punishing them for standing behind our flag, then we begin to erode the unity that has made this country great for over 200 hundred years.  And that's not fair...not fair to the Founding Fathers, nor to the people who have lived for, fought for, and died for this country, and that includes some people who are very, very close to my own heart, and to whom I have more respect than I can ever convey.

The United States has always entertained a variety in its populations: Republican or Democrat; Liberal or Conservative; Christian or Atheist; but the one thing we have always had is patriotism, and this patriotism has allowed the Christian and the Atheist and the Democrat and the Republican and the Liberal and the Conservative to stand together in defense of our nation.  This is why I insist my children stand every day with their classmates and say the Pledge of Allegiance (complete with the "One Nation Under God" part), and why I make sure they learn our history.  I want them to be proud of who they are and where they come from, and I don't want them to ever feel the necessity to bow to another nation's flag...unless they move there.

To my veteran friends - Thank you, and I will always be proud of our flag because of you.

I have a question for some of my Christian friends who follow this blog (whether they admit it or not):

My girls go to church.  I haven't hidden the fact from them that I'm not a believer, but I have decided to not force my lack of belief on them.  We all make decisions and determinations in our lives, and we deal with whatever the consequences of our choices may be.  My oldest has been very frank with me about her desire to learn about God and to establish a "relationship" with him/her/it, and I see no reason to counter that desire with my absolute lack of. 

We have actually had several discussions about it, and I usually end up telling her the same thing:  the only person who can make this choice is you.  If you truly want to go to church and learn about the Bible the way that whatever church you attend teaches you, then I will encourage you to do so, because the more you know, the better equipped you become to choose. And if you ultimately decide that you want to be a Christian, then I will support and respect this decision, as long as you respect my decision not to be.  I also have no problem with her asking me questions about something that was said, or the sermon that was preached, because I want her to know both sides of the issue.

So here is my question...does this door open both ways? 

If you are a Christian, and your child comes to you and says he or she no longer believes (or perhaps never did), how would you handle it?  Are you going to accept your child's proclamation, and allow him or her to stop going to church, but leave yourself open to the option that one day he or she might return to a life of faith?  Or are you going to insist your child keeps going to church every Sunday in hopes that somehow this loss of faith is only temporary, or that the belief will somehow force its way back in?

I am not knocking Christians, because I know atheists who are just as adamant that their children grow up to be nonbelievers; however, I don't believe you can lead your child's life for him (or her), and there are some things they just have to decide for themselves.

So tell me...what would you do?  How would you handle it?

This morning I took the final step toward getting my life back, and I never realized until now how something could be so easy and so complicated at the same time.  It is easy in the fact that it has been coming for a long, long time, and complicated because no matter how hard I try, there is still the inevitable guilt, anger and frustration that tears into you when you look into the faces of two innocent children who are wondering what in the hell is going on.

I have given up 16 1/2 years trying to make this work, and I'm to the point where I just can't do it anymore; the last 3 years have almost destroyed me.  When I look at it now, I think that's the key...I shouldn't be feeling like I've given up my life for someone else; mutual sacrifice I can understand, but not this kind of loss of self.  I have swallowed far more anger and resentment than any one person should be forced to (although I know there are those who have endured far more than I).

One thing I have noticed about my friends whose marriages have all endured is that there is more giving than there is taking.  I know it sounds corny, but it is true.  They give each other support; when one is sick, the other steps up.  When one is tired, the other makes dinner.  When one just needs some affection, the other gives it.  And when the tables are turned, the one gives it all back.  They each appreciate the other as a gift, and they cherish what they have been given.  My grandparents survived 52 years together this way; when one died, the other followed from a broken heart.

I am not a needy person; I don't need to hear "I love you" 10 times a day, or to be waited on, or to be put on a pedestal.  I don't need to be taken care of when I'm sick (in fact, you will find I am much easier to deal with if you leave me alone and let me be sick in peace).  I don't mind giving, and if you show me just a little appreciation, I will give you everything I have, and then some.  I don't believe in doing things half assed (except cleaning house, but that's a different matter); but when I start getting taken for granted, I can't give anymore, and in this case, it's way beyond that.

I have been asked repeatedly if there is someone else; even though there is someone skirting my peripheral vision, it is strictly coincidence.  As I said, this has been coming, and has been coming for quite some time.  But I was sick of being asked, and so this morning I finally said yes.  Yes, there is someone else.  Of course the demand was made that I say who, but the answer was simple.

The someone else is me.

Every so often we all have someone come into our lives who leave such a mark, good or bad, that no matter how far away they go, or how much time has passed, or even if death has claimed them, we can never let that person go.  I have been fortunate enough to have someone like that not just once, but three times.  Each of these people has changed me and the way I look at my world in some way.

Today would have been one of these people's 38th birthday if cancer hadn't claimed him in 2008 at 35.  I could go on for a while about what if felt like when I opened the paper and saw his obituary, but why?  Instead, he is one I would rather remember him as I knew him; strong, tough, defiant, and full of ego and shit.  He and his buddies "ruled the cruise" in our day, and everyone knew when he was in town.  He was the quintessential bad boy; nothing and no one ever phased him.  And he drove me absolutely crazy.

I will never forget the time he and his friends decided to go camping, and it was somehow determined that I was going, too.  I remember standing there thinking he was just flaming crazy if he thought for a second that I was going anywhere with them; it was almost 10 o'clock at night in October and it was COLD...and anyone who knows me knows if there is one thing I cannot stand, it is being cold.  I told him repeatedly which end of my ass he could kiss, and he just kept looking at me with that cocky ass smile of his.  Next thing I knew, I was loaded up in a truck, and I was going camping.

I froze my ass off that night, and by morning, I was ready to kill him; that sentiment didn't change when he, suffering from a hangover no less, dropped a cooler in front of me and asked me how long until breakfast.  I was like, I am not cooking breakfast.  He just said, "Well, what do you think we brought you for?", and we weren't leaving until I fixed breakfast.  I think I invented names to call him on the way home.

We lost touch after he went into the military, but I never forgot him.  Then, when I saw him several years later, there was no mistaking those blue eyes and that cocky ass smile, and there's no forgetting them, either.

The second one is a friend who I use to raise holy hell with, and who I am now regaining a closeness to because, even though our lives took very different paths, we have endured the same trials, tribulations and struggles.  There is a kindred there; we have both battled with depression, which means we have a unique kind of understanding and support for each other.  There is a certain level of strength that I gain from her, and that she gains from me.

The third...well, that one defies explanation, because I can't define how this person has affected my life so greatly; I just know, and I'm glad I do (whether this person has figured this out or not, I don't know...but I'm good with that).

I guess the best anyone can ever hope for is to have just one person like my three, because they are the ones who help make our lives special; they give us our memories (although some are sometimes painful), and they give us something to look forward to.  They provide us connections to our pasts, conversations for our present, and reasons to look toward the future.  I know my life would not be the same without these people in it.

In Memory of Jesse Neal Simpson, Jr.

November 13, 1972 - May 13, 2008

May you forever be at peace...

My mother lost her battle with drug addiction 5 years ago today when she learned the hard way that pneumonia, COPD, and an eight ball of cocaine don't play nicely together.  She died the same way she lived her life; hard and brutal, and her death was a sentence I would not pass on my worst enemy.

I remember sitting in the hospital unable to do a thing as she panicked while every organ in her body failed.  She couldn't breathe because her lungs were filled with fluid; her heart was beating so fast and her blood pressure was so high that every blood vessel in her eyes ruptured.  She had turned this sickly yellow and she was foaming at the mouth; she was in such a panic that they had physically restrained her, and all the skin over her wrists was torn and bruised.  She was begging my uncle and me to either kill her or save her; she wasn't even coherent enough to make sense from one minute to the other.  It was absolutely the most horrible thing I have ever watched happen in my entire life.

When the doctor came, he took me aside and told me point blank: your mother is going to die, and she either dies like this, or you give me permission to force her into a coma so she can die in peace.  I didn't even have to think about signing the form, and I stood there while they administered the narcotics; her drug tolerance was so high that the amount they gave her would have killed a 200 pound man in less than 15 minutes, and even then it still took nearly two hours and two more doses before she finally slipped into the coma from which she would never wake up.

My mother was an enigma; there was no rhyme or reason as to why she was the way she was, other than she was just born that way.  She had never been a warm or loving person, and I was often told that even as a child, she could be cold and manipulative.  Addiction, depression and psychopathic behavior runs rampant in my family history, and these traits culminated in her...it was just one of those things.

Truth be known, my mother did have her better moments; she was an incredibly gifted artist, and something about my oldest daughter triggered a certain instinct in her that no one else did.  Furthermore, she was good for an entertaining instant or two.  I will never forget her and a big old tom turkey that I had; that thing just hated her, and he would wait for any opportunity to chase her.  One day she pulled up in my driveway, and I saw her looking for that turkey.  I knew right where he was; he liked to hide on the other side of the hedge by the side of my house.  But she didn't see him, so she figured it was safe to make it through the front door.  I just watched her out my kitchen window, because I knew...

Sure as shit, here he came.  My mother's eyes got wide as could be when she saw him, and she started flying up the ramp to my deck with that damn turkey right behind her, his head bright red, wings outstretched and flapping and tail feathers straight up in the air.  He's gobbling up a storm, and she's yelling, "Heather!  Get your goddamn turkey!!" 

And I'm of no help, because I was in my kitchen absolutely rolling. 

She finally made it in the house; she yelled at me and cussed at me, and the more she yelled and the more she cussed, the harder I laughed.  After about the 20th threat to turn him into Thanksgiving dinner, she finally calmed down, but it took her a good three days to get over being mad at me.  (Meanwhile, that crotchety thing paced up and down the deck in front of the door for the next hour, still all puffed up and gobbling every so often just to let her know he was waiting for her.  I was nice, though, and penned him before she left.)

She was also the one who helped me recover from a near fatal illness after my first child was born.  Eva was barely three weeks old when I collapsed one day from a massive E. coli infection which had settled in my kidneys and a staph infection in the c-section incision; either one on its own could have landed me in the hospital, but combined they were almost lethal, and I had been suffering from both since my daughter had been born (I had also had preeclampsia and had to undergo an emergency cesarean after 29 hours of labor, which left my immune system compromised).  She sat by my side in the hospital for three days helping care for my newborn daughter while they pumped me full of antibiotics, trying to save what was left of my kidneys.  (Glad to report that my kidneys are now fine.)

When she went into the hospital for the last time, we knew she was never going to be the same.  My uncle and I had spent the morning making arrangements for hospice and nursing care, as well as for her impending death (although we weren't expecting it to happen as quickly as it did; we thought a month, two at most).   My family has always died at home, and my mother was going to be no different - I was fully ready to take care of her for however long necessary.

Maybe this was her way of making sure I didn't have to.

I honestly think my mother knew she was close to the end of her life even before this last bout; about three weeks before she died, my youngest daughter, who had just barely turned a year, was trying to climb on her lap.  My mom picked her up and held her, then she said to me, "Do you think Isella will remember me when I'm gone?"  She then looked at my daughter and just smiled.  After a moment, she said, "No.  She will have no memory of me."  I didn't give those words much thought then, but have never forgotten them since.

So now, five years down the road, I still catch myself thinking about her, and, in a weird sort of way, missing her.  She had always considered herself a free spirit (although she also said she never figured out quite how to land), and there was nothing more fitting of that sentiment than when we released her ashes above the canyon, and the coldest wind I swear I have ever felt in my life caught them and sent them swirling through the air.  It was at that moment when I realized that all the demons who had tormented her all of her life were gone, and she was finally and truly free.

A very curious thing happened the other day; I had not participated in the religion and faith forum I belong to for about a week, so I thought I'd check in.  As I was reading through one of the threads, I caught a dig at me and at my blog; one of the other members, the one who said he would pray that I would at least get an interview for the next $7.25 an hour job I applied for, accused me of "skewering" what he said, and "warned" the other members of the group to be careful of what they said to me, because I would turn it around on my blog.

I about fell off my chair laughing.

First of all, I have never hidden the fact that I write a blog, and secondly, when I ask this groups opinions on certain issues, I let them know I may use it in the blog.  It should be noted that this particular member and I, however, constantly go rounds.  He is, without a doubt, one of the more fundamentalist members of the group, and I, without a doubt, am not.  If there is a fight to be had, we have had it.

Truth be known, I don't think he's a bad guy; but I do believe his "version" of things are as skewered as he accuses me of being.  He is one of those people who grew up in faith, kind of lost it for a while, and then gained it back with a ferocity usually only found in a predator/prey situation.  I have no doubt he truly believes what he says, repeatedly, over and over, and then a few more times just in case we all missed it the during the previous 500 statements, but he does so with such a rigidity that he often leaves no room for discussion.  This means that what could be a well rounded debate turns into a battle with neither side gaining ground.  (And rarely is there a discussion that doesn't include at least one reference to the fourth turning, to someone's personal life, or to the internal vs. external locus of control, which has led me to wanting to tell him to take his locus and shove it internally up his control.)

I think part of the problem, though, is that I, along with some of the other atheists in this group, are just as rigid and unforgiving.  He is far from the only person I have engaged in extremely heated discussions with; however, many of them tend to retain some level of cordiality, even when there is absolutely no chance of agreement.  Yet there is very little of that with this particular person, and to say putting us in a room together and locking the door would be a bad idea is the absolute understatement of the year.

But that's not good, either, because, as someone whom I've grown to care for quite dearly and whose opinion I do respect a lot, reminded me once before, when I get to the point where I can no longer give room for their beliefs and opinions, then I really become no different than the people whose absolutely rigid fundamentalist views drive me crazy.  (Ding, I know you are reading this, and are sure you know whom I am referring to, but it isn't, and if you still think it is, you can go fly.)  Of course, my friend was referring more to the people who offer prayers and support as a genuine aspect of their faith, but it applies here as well.  If we both just want to spout our side without respecting the side of the other, then there will never be conversation, and without conversation, there cannot be consensus, and without consensus, there can be no balance, and without balance...well, you get the idea.

Truth be known, there are several members of this group who, while I may not agree with their views, I have a great deal of respect for.  They are just good people overall, and when they offer something, the try to keep it positive (they also tend to stay out of the more intense conversations).  I could probably learn from them if I would let go of some of this ego of mine; in fact, all of us fundamentalists on either side could.

Maybe if I took a page from their book, I could be part of the solution, instead of just the catalyst for an argument.

"Hope" and "Faith"

"Hope" is such a loaded word; people will tell you to have hope, not to give up hope, and to not lose hope.  On the flip side, others will tell you not to get your hopes up, don't set your hopes to high, and while it's alright to hope for the best, you still need to prepare for the worst.  You can have all your hopes met, or all your hopes dashed, or you there can be no hope for you at all.  So what, exactly, am I suppose to do with it?

A lot of times, the word "hope" is used in conjunction with the word "faith", which also can be far more loaded than its one syllable would indicate.  Both words carry such positive, yet such negative, connotations; you can have all the faith in the world in someone, and the next day, lose all the faith you ever had in that same person.  By the same token, you can have such high hopes for something you want so dearly, and then when it doesn't, lose all faith that anything like it will ever happen again.  Those two words can bring a lot of joy, but at the same time, deliver more than enough pain.

I really try to avoid engaging in either one; it is much easier to handle the disappointment that comes with having your hopes destroyed and your faith lost if you avoid it in the first place.  Perhaps that is a pessimistic, not to mention jaded, stance to take, but it is by far safer, at least for me...yet despite my very guarded nature, sometimes they both manage to sneak in.  I've been feeling them (hope more so than faith) sneaking around, and I have caught myself wanting to open up, in spite of the possible hurt I can experience with either one.  I have been asking myself all day if I can do it, and if it's even worth it.

Today has been one of those weird, off kilter days because of what has been playing out in my mind.  My normal, arrogant, egotistical self has been rocked a little, and that is something I am just not use to.  My brain has been going back and forth all day between wanting to, yet not daring to, and it hasn't even begun to settle down.  This isn't me; I don't do this...I don't let myself go to that place of hopes and dreams and uncertainties, and here I've come close to doing just that.

And it hurts.

By tomorrow, I'm sure I will have wrestled myself back to that place of guarded control which is, by far, my comfort zone, with all of its complications firmly in tact.  But today, I seem to be losing the match.  Perhaps I should just give in for now, and hope by tomorrow it will all be back to normal, and have faith that it will be.

I sometimes wonder if I'm cut out for this mommy thing; don't get me wrong...I love my girls.  However, there are days when I think I just suck at being a mother.

I never wanted kids; I was firmly convinced that I didn't need to be a parent to feel "happy" or "fulfilled", and I know plenty of childless people who are very content with their lives.  However, I was pretty much talked into the first and thought, well, I can handle one.  Truth be known, I almost didn't; the pregnancy was very hard, and I became very sick.  The strain was so hard on my system that I almost lost her at birth, and I came very close to dying from massive kidney and staph infections three weeks later.  The doctor told me no more; my body could not handle the stress of pregnancy.  That suited me just fine...one was more than enough for me.

Besides, I didn't know if I was going to survive this whole new parent thing.  I had my own battle with depression after she was born, and I was just absolutely hyper protective of this little girl.  I had made plans to return to work after she was born, thinking it would not phase me, but I couldn't do it.  I could not leave her with anyone else, and didn't for nearly two years.  Not only that, but something about my oldest caused a change in my mother; she morphed from candidate for worst mother in the world to super grandma, and she and my daughter formed a bond I have never been able to explain.  (My mother died shortly after my second child's first birthday; Isella doesn't even remember her.)

For some unknown reason, I was not permanently "fixed" after the first, although by rights I should have been.  I was given some explanation about wanting to wait until after I turned 30 (I was 27 when I had my first).  30 came and went, and so did 31.  By this time, I was sick of taking medication, and I decided it was time to get it done.  I went to the doctor at the end of January; he came back into the room and said he would be glad to do the procedure...in October.  I almost passed out.

Because of the problems with the first pregnancy, terminating the second pregnancy was discussed, but only very, very briefly.  There was no way I could do it.  So I was monitored very closely by specialists, but pregnancy #2 went off without a hitch, and along came my second daughter.  Since we already knew I was going to have a cesarean (I had an emergency one with the first), arrangements were made to ensure there were no more surprises.  (When I was on the table, the doctor asked me if I sure I wanted to have my tubes removed.  I told him for all I gave a shit he could take out the whole fucking thing and burn it.)

Now, 6 years later, I have two girls with two totally different personalities.  Eva (pronounced AVA, and she will let you know it) is my softie with  the big heart.  The girl does not know a stranger, and goes out of her way to include everyone.  She is also my more sensible and my more sensitive; I do have to be careful with how I say things, because everything is taken to heart.  Isella, on the other hand, is her mother, in spades, x 3.  She is overly confident and fearless, and she has no problem with tearing the world a new asshole as she sees fit.  To say she will be the one to give me a stroke is an understatement; I often say she is punishment for everything I have ever done wrong in my entire life...and there is plenty.

One would think I would have gotten at least a half a handle on this parenting thing by now, but I still struggle with it.  I am not an affectionate person by nature; it drives me nuts when casual friends or acquaintances want to hug me, or when people I'm not familiar with touch me.  But kids want to be loved; they want to be hugged and held and comforted, and I had to teach myself to relax and not withdraw when they wanted to cuddle up to me or climb on my lap.  I had to also learn to control what was once an extremely vicious temper, and to learn to measure my actions and reactions to fit the situation, and not just with them, but with other people...especially when they are around.

One of the biggest challenges I face daily, though, is to not let my past come through with them.  I blew up at Eva one day because she thought she was going to wear a pair of dirty pants to school when she had plenty of clean ones in her closet.  I told her no child of mine was walking out of this house without a bath and without clean clothes.  I was talking to my uncle about it later, and he asked me if the pants were really that dirty (they weren't), and if she had been clean and bathed at the time, and I said, yes.  He then asked me if the real reason I hadn't gotten so out of sorts is because I didn't want someone saying to her what had been said to me, and he was right.  When I was in third grade, I was living with my mother.  We never had money, because she was either drinking it all or snorting it, and I was lucky if there was shampoo in the house, let alonepointing out how filthy I was and how bad I stunk to the entire class.  She would stand me up in front of the other kids and tell them I was a perfect example of how not to take care of one's self.  She would tell me she wished I wouldn't bother wasting her time showing up to her class, because I would never be worth anything anyway.

No matter how hard you try to bury that kind of psychological trauma, it stays in your brain and picks the most inopportune times to pop out, and that's what happened that day.  I had to suck it up and apologize to my daughter, because I had severely overreaction to a minor situation, and while she still was not wearing dirty pants (no matter how only slightly dirty they were) to school, it did not warrant the temper snit she had experienced. 

I'm sure my learning curve is far from over; I am just entering the teenage years with the one,  and already the conversations are starting about friends and boys and school and boys and futures and boys; as for the other...she's already taken over her school, and she will either end up a politician, a lawyer or an actress, or some combination of all three.  But I think both girls have good heads on their shoulders, and in some ways, they are smarter than I am.  Even though I am far from perfect, I am trying, and that's the best I can do.

I have been told that the best validation of a parent's life is to have your child's life and accomplishments exceed those of your own, and I see nothing different for my two girls.  I am sure we will have bumps and setbacks and drama, but all in all, I know they are going to do well in life.

As a parent, I can ask for nothing more.

(I know you are all wondering what happened to the teacher...after the cops were finally called on my mother, and my grandparents were called to come get me, my grandmother showed up.  Somehow, she ended up at the school, and in the course of things, found out what had been said to me and about me.  By the time she was done, it was a wonder the school was left standing, and the teacher wasn't.)

Today has been one of those days...gorgeous inside and out.  With the exception of a minor altercation at Home Depot, it has been, for the most part, incredible all the way around.

I hate the cold, and have been dreading the onset of yet another winter; however, today I was given a respite from that dread...70 degrees with only a hint of clouds.  Today I was able to sit back and actually appreciate the blaze of autumn colors throughout the valley.  I had the time today to spoil my cows with doughnuts and ear scratches, and to even stretch out for a quick nap in the sun.

I don't have many days like this...days where I have the time to enjoy everything around me.  My life tends to be hectic and often complicated; true, I bring a lot of the complication on myself, because I am a stubborn and complicated person.  However, something has happened recently which has made me realize that it doesn't always need to be this way, and there is room for contentment in my world.

On top of all that, I also had the joy of being given far more credit than I deserve by a person who I believe is really a far stronger person than I.  This says so much about the strength of character, and the bond among friends, and I definitely consider her a friend.

Winter is suppose to sneak back this weekend with cold and rain, but for now, I can still take in this day.  In fact, it is still in the low 60's, and I am considering sneaking outside for a quick walk just to take in the night air.  Tomorrow will more than likely have it all back to normal, but for today, it's all good.

Parent/teacher conferences are tomorrow, and I have an issue I ought to address with my oldest daughter's teacher, and I'm trying to decide how to do it without sounding like a total bitch.  Normally, it would not phase me, but my child is particularly fond of this teacher, and so I want to handle it carefully as to not affect their relationship, but still get the point across.

This teacher is very religious and very, very conservative, and, well, I'm not; this disparity between the instructor and the parent has created a little bit of confusion in my child.  Bear in mind my kids do not attend a private, religious school, which means neither religion nor politics belongs in the classroom; yet both have found their way to this classroom.  While I understand the area in which I live is fairly religious and very conservative, and most of the parents would not have any real problem with what is going on, I am not most parents, and I do have a problem with it.

However, I have to decide if it is really worth bringing up, or if I should let it go.

This is a constant struggle for me, and sometimes I wonder if I should continue to live where my beliefs and my views are so vastly different from so much of the population.  I have been asked on occasion why I do live here; it isn't like I haven't lived in other places (Phoenix and L.A.), or had the opportunity to travel extensively; but this has always pretty much been home.  My grandparents lived here for over 30 years, and I still reside on a property which has been in my family since 1907; it, and another property, are mine free and clear, and that's something not a lot of people can say.  Not only that, but my children were born here, and have been raised here.  Both love the school they attend, and, for the most part, they are happy, well adjusted kids. 

But does all this make it worth staying?  Truth be known, if it weren't for my children and for the properties, I more than likely wouldn't remain.  I also have a have a home in Seattle, and I could very easily disappear into that city's framework and never cause a ripple; my views and my beliefs would never be questioned.  But the truth of the matter is that I do have children (although I am sure they would adjust to city life), and I do own properties, and whether I will admit it or not, there is a connection that I have to this place.  I'm not saying that connection could never be broken, and at sometime it just might be; but for now, it is still very much in tact, and the thought of running from here simply because of the challenges I face over who I am and what I believe seems almost cowardly.

So how to deal with this teacher who thinks Sarah Palin is just oh, so GREAT?  I guess the best I can do is address it with her openly, honestly, and directly; not in a confrontational manner, but in a way that hopefully conveys that while I respect her, and I appreciate the connection she has with my daughter, I would ask that she also show the same respect to me and to our differences of opinion.

And speaking of opinions, my daughter has voiced hers, and that is for me to not say anything, which is a very real option.  Perhaps she's right; perhaps I should just let it go and just make sure my daughter knows that if she has questions about something brought up in the classroom (Sarah Palin is NOT GREAT), she can come to me and talk it out.  Besides I want her to know that people can think and believe in different ways and still be good people, and her teacher truly is a good person.

Maybe the best thing I can do is go to the conference and see how the conversation plays out; if the opening presents itself, then I can talk it out with the teacher.  If it doesn't, then I will let it go and just monitor the situation, making sure to step in if it really starts to get out of hand.

Meanwhile, I will just remind myself how much in rains in Seattle.

Today's Bible Lesson: The First Two Chapters of Genesis

How can the Bible be the inerrant word of God when it can't even get the creation story straight?

Anyone who has actually studied the Bible knows there are two separate creation stories found in the first two chapters of Genesis. 

In one, man is created first, then the animals, then woman; in the other the animals are created first, and man and woman at the same time.

In one, all the plants are created first; in the other, man is created first, and the gardens grew after, including the trees found in the Garden of Eden.

Woman is "credited" with the fall of man; but according to the second chapter of Genesis, she was not told by God to not eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, only Adam was.  Eve hadn't even been made yet (even though according to the first chapter, they were made at the same time, although there is no mention of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil in the first chapter, although all the plants and trees had been created before man and woman).

And I'm suppose to believe the rest of it...

Tomorrow's topic:  Noah and the Flood

The "Price" of Friendship

It is a sentiment I hear all too often, and on both sides of the scene; friendship always seems to come with a price.  It doesn't seem to matter, either, if you are on the "giving" end, or the "receiving" end of the friendship; it somehow ends up costing you, whether that cost is mental or emotional (or, least important, monetary).  This is a tough edict for me to accept, because I was always taught true friendship came without any strings attached.

My grandfather once told me that on the day of your death, if you could count the number of true friends on one hand, you would die a wealthy person, and I believe that, and I am very fortunate to say that I have that very number of people I consider my friends, plus one or two more.  For me, it is far less about the accumulation, and far more about the asset.

My oldest daughter is in the process of learning this lesson herself; she told me last night that sometimes she feels "used" by her some of her friends, because all they seem to want is for her to do things for them, but never with them.  I told her not to do whatever it is they keep asking her to do, to which she answered with what has to be a standard 11 year old response: "But then they won't like me."

I bit back my initial retort, which was basically to tell these people to go fuck themselves, because I knew that really wasn't the answer, and would do nothing to help her.  It is hard, regardless of one's age, to not be "liked"; I know plenty of adults who still go out of their way to do something for someone else just so they feel "liked".  So, instead, I asked her, "Does *this person* make you feel this way?  How about that person?"  We went through her list, and when we were done, I told her to look at the people who she felt good when she was around, and consider them as her friends, and to keep the rest at a distance.  I told her it wasn't necessary to be mean or rude, and it was fine to be friendly; however, just don't expect them to be part of her circle, and don't worry so much about whether they "like" her.  Will she listen?  Hard to say, but it was the best answer I could give.

I think part of the problem is that friendship, like so many other things, has been cheapened to the point where no one recognizes it anymore.  We've turned choosing friends into nothing more than any other TV dating show (personally, if I was Paris Hilton's "bff", I would tell her to pull her head out of her ass and grow the fuck up).  There seems to be no value in having a friend, or being a friend.

And that's bullshit.

Personally, I'm not a "cosmetic" friend; if I am going to be someone's friend, I want that person to know I will gladly put myself on the line for that person, and I don't expect anything in return.  My grandmother was firmly convinced that the only way to have friends is to be a friend, and I have no problem being that friend.  Of course I have been burned, but who hasn't?  It just keeps from becoming too complacent and from taking those I do consider my friends for granted.

Besides, who knows?  Maybe someday one of those people who I hold so close will be that friend for me.