Fashion, friends, and food poisoning

1) So Mimi is nine and starting fourth grade and she doesn't give a crap about her clothes. By which I mean she has certain items of clothing she likes, and some she doesn't, but she has no sense of whether things match or if she is wearing two different socks or whatever. I admire this about her but also, I'm worried that she's getting to the age where people start to notice this stuff. I clearly remember getting teased in fourth grade because I was the same way and this one time I had on pants that were totally too short. Some girl laughed because I was wearing "floods" and I didn't even know what that MEANT. 

So I guess I'm debating whether and how to bring this up with her. I know she'll get teased eventually because most of us do, and I don't want to make her self-conscious when she isn't, but I don't really want her to get teased if it's something I can help with. 

2) I'm now friends with my ex-husband on facebook. It seemed kind of silly to keep sending him pictures that I'd already posted and since we do things together with the girls so often, and for the most part get along, it just seemed pointless not to be. Of course this means I will have to be more careful about filtering posts but I should do that anyway.

3) I got food poisoning of some sort last week. I know this because I ended up at the doc on Friday after some, uh, slightly worrying symptoms. I was feeling a little better and had a table at Bookfest yesterday, which went really well, but I also ate a sandwich for lunch while I was there and apparently that was a mistake because last night I had massive nausea and ick again. 

Also due to being ill I wasn't as prepared for Bookfest as I would have liked and nearly sold out. But the good thing is that gives me a great idea of what will go over well when I do Liberty Local at the end of October. I need to get crocheting. The Oods in particular were a big hit. Also the tiny cell phone charms. 

The world doesn't hate you. Don't hate the world.

Dear daughters,

This is you being awesome

The world does not hate you.   

Look, everything in that post is true. The world is unfair. People can be horrible. A whole lot of the world, in general, thinks that being a girl is pretty much the worst thing you can be. So I'm not writing this to criticize the parent who wrote the above, or argue with anything she said. I admire her passion and her principles. I love that she teaches her daughter to go out every day and show the world how awesome she is. I like big chunks of that post, and the first time I read it, I thought "right on! Fuck 'em all!"

But I kept seeing it posted on facebook, by a lot of different moms. And I thought about it. It occurred to me I would express the same basic ideas rather differently, and I want to tell you why.

Granted, sometimes I want to say "fuck 'em." I have said it. When I get sick and tired of "girly" being used as an insult. When I get fed up with the "girl toys" and "boy toys" aisles at the big-box stores, or when I am frustrated because I have spent untold hours looking for appropriate Halloween costumes for your age. (This, by the way? NOT appropriate.) When I think about a culture that tells us motherhood is the most noble thing we can be, then doesn't support parents or families or children after they leave the womb, unless they fit into certain very specific, very gendered boxes.

You are 5 and 9 years old, respectively, and I shouldn't have to special order and pay $30 each for a pair of shorts that reach mid-thigh and don't have words written across your butts, or go to three or four stores in search of sandals in a size one that don't have heels. That makes me feel ill. A lot.

I could write several posts ranting about how utterly broken gender culture is in this country, about the messages we send little boys and little girls -- and big boys and big girls -- that can screw us all up for life. But that's not what I want to tell you about. You will find that out soon enough. And when you do, you will, I hope, be horrified, and refuse to buy into the conventional wisdom that your looks and your weight are your only source of self-worth, or lack thereof.

What I want to tell you, instead, is that the world loves you. I want you to wake up each morning knowing that you are utterly awesome, and that other people are too, and the world is a freaking fantastic place.

You will, of course, learn that there are people who treat other people badly because of things they have no control over: gender, sexual preference, appearance. There are people who are just bullies. There are people who want to make sure you stay in what they think is your place. You both have already started to learn that lesson, and there's no help for it. But you also know -- and I never want you to forget -- that there are completely wonderful people in the world, as well. Who help other people just because they can. Who give up their own comfort to make things a little bit more comfortable for someone else. Who will go out of their way to make your day a little bit brighter, for no reason other than that you both live on the same planet and it feels good to make someone else smile.

I'm not saying you have to be one of those people. Lord knows I'm not, not very often. I don't have that much energy and frankly I don't have that much self-sacrifice in me right now. But I want you to know they are out there. They might not outnumber the haters, but they are out there, and they love you.

And I'm not saying give up, accept unfairness and stereotypes and do nothing to change them. You can fight them, without hating the world that brought them into being. That world brought you into being, too.

Here's the other extremely important thing: you have nothing to prove to anyone. You go out and be awesome, because you ARE awesome, but if you don't want to be the one who proves that a girl can [fill in the blank] just as good, or better than, a boy, you don't have to. You didn't choose to be female, and you don't have anything to prove just by virtue of your sex.

You know that it's ok to like trucks, and motorcycles, and the color pink, and sparkly nail polish, and princesses and Transformers, whether you are a boy or a girl. You already know you can grow up to be anything you want to be. As long as you don't forget that you have a zillion choices, you don't have to be the one who makes the most radical choice. Someone will, eventually. If it's you, because that's what you want, fantastic. But if what you really want is to be a yoga instructor or a parent who stays home or an English teacher, then that's what you should do, instead. Don't do anything just to prove the haters wrong. Do what makes you happy.

Don't let people make you feel bad because you like to wear makeup or cry at sappy movies or collect Barbie dolls. And don't let people make you feel bad because you hate makeup and would rather sleep an extra 15 minutes, because you chop all your hair off and wear black nail polish, or because you would rather learn to rebuild an engine than sew a straight seam. Don't feel bad for wanting to get married and have children. Don't feel bad if you don't. Both are perfectly fine, valid choices. Frankly, just about anything you choose is just freaking fine, if you are choosing it because it's what you want. Not because you want to either a) conform or b) rebel just for the sake of fitting in or sticking out.

What I'm saying is, in my long-winded, god-mom-get-an-editor way, is don't go out every day thinking the world hates you for being a girl. Or for being anything that you are. Please don't. Because that will make you hate the world. You will grow bitter and angry, and you will do things just to spite the anonymous "them" who you think are telling you who you should be. Feel free to ignore "them" and do whatever you want, obviously, but don't do things just to spite "them." They don't actually care what you do. They only even exist because we give them any power to have any effect on us.

Look, I'm no Pollyanna. I know that political machinations will continue to make the world a difficult place for women. I know that some people will look at you and think "she's just a girl, what does she know?" I know that some people will judge you on the size of your breasts, not the size of your heart or your intellect. Someone someday will see you in a short skirt, or in sweatpants, and decide they know something about you because of your clothing choices. I know that at some point in the next 10 (20, 30) years, you will feel bad about yourself because of the way you look.

You know what? I'm almost 40. I'm divorced, renting a tiny house, driving a 12-year-old car, working in an underpaid, female-dominated field. This is not what I expected my life would be at this point. And still? I'm pretty sure that the world is an amazing, beautiful place. I don't feel it every minute of every day. Of course not. But on the whole. And I know that unless I let politicians, marketers, misogynists, and oversexed frat boys make me jaded and bitter, then I still win.

I want you to win, too. I want you to be awesome. Not to show anybody anything or teach anyone a lesson or to get back and anyone who said something hateful or mean or ignorant. But just because you are both amazing, wonderful, strong, loving, beautiful human beings. And I never want that to change.

This is you being awesome, too.

Waiting Game

(I imagine I'd be surprised at how many people feel this way, too, about their own lives, and this sounds more like some faux-introspective college journal entry than I intended it to. But, it's true, even if it's not original.)

When I think back on my life, it hurts me to think about how much time I've wasted, just waiting for something to happen. I'm good at waiting. I'm good at pretending, even to myself, that I'm living, when I'm really just waiting.

I spent most of high school waiting to go to college, so that my real life could start. I knew I was waiting. High school sucked; there seemed little reason to try and make something better of it.

I spent most of college waiting to graduate, so that my real life could start. College wasn't what I expected, and I didn't know how to make it better, and I was scared to try.

Yes, AGAIN (Imported post)

So I broke my foot falling off a curb. Again.

That was Saturday. Stepped off a curb, my right ankle gave out and my foot twisted and I went down, hard. The thing is, this happens to me so often that while it hurt -- it REALLY hurt -- I decided to ignore it. I was leaving my friend Kate's place, on my way home to get ready for a date. I sat on the curb for a minute, debated calling Kate to come help me inside, and then got in my car and drove home. And got ready for my date.

I was aware, this entire time, that my foot was hurting probably more than it should, given my prior experience with such things. I decided to ignore that and go out, because 1) I hate making a big deal out of something that turns out to be nothing and 2) I had a date. This doesn't happen THAT often, and I didn't want to cancel to sit home by myself and think about how my foot hurt.

I arrived at the restaurant and proceeded to have a lovely time for the next several hours, except for how much my foot hurt. And kept hurting. And got worse. Date said several times "Are you sure you don't want me to take you to the ER?" No, no, I kept saying, I'll go home and put some ice on it, and will see how it is in the morning.

I got up to limp to the bathroom a couple of times and by the last time I did this, I knew I was in bad shape. Half an hour or so later when we got up to go, I couldn't put any weight on it and date had to help me to my car. At this point if it hadn't been a first date I might have had him take me to the ER, but seriously? On a first date? Awkward!

During the 15 minute drive home I became aware that putting pressure on my foot from the gas pedal was causing pain to kind of shoot up the back of my leg. Also my toes were kind of tingly. Then I realized that to get out of my car and to my front door, I'd probably have to crawl, or hang on to the side of the house; and I realized, too, that if I got inside and got up tomorrow and it was worse, I'd have a really hard time getting myself back out of the house to go to urgent care.

So I stayed in the car and took myself off to the ER. Usually when I'm at the ER it's for one of the kids, or one of my parents, to be honest; it's a surreal experience to be there by oneself. I had a brief flare of hope that maybe I'd have a cute resident, since, after all, typically one is at the ER in pajama pants that have been vomited on, or a bloody shirt; I still looked fairly cute in my sparkly tank top and skinny jeans. But no.
I got to go to x-ray right away, then sat on a gurney in the hall for a long time listening to nurses and techs and residents have the same conversation over and over about the time change. There was a drug-seeker getting more and more irate because no one was giving her drugs, which she seemed to think violated her constitutional rights. Finally she got up off her hallway gurney and stomped out. I thought she she be more appreciative of having the ability to stomp, really, unlike some people.

Hedgebaby with three broken legs. Which is awful, but way cuter than me.

The resident, eventually, confirmed a fracture of the fifth metatarsal, otherwise known as the bone I have broken twice before. I had to take my pants of to get a splint, because of COURSE I was wearing my skinny jeans; then I had to sit around in a gown while they looked for some scrub pants for me to wear home because of course the jeans wouldn't go back on over the splint. (Although, now I have scrub pants, so, score!) After splinting me, the med student was writing up the order and had to ask me how to spell "crutches."

Then it occurred to me and the medical student that I wouldn't be allowed to drive home with this temporary splint on my foot. And it was three am. (Four, if you didn't factor the time change into account.) Fortunately my lovely sister who lives 20 minutes away was up, for no good reason, and came to get me, drove me home, got me in the house, and tucked me in.

life is messy

It has been a super-annoying week.

Mimi and Boo have both had difficult days, although they at least had the grace to alternate; Wednesday Mimi raged and screamed from the time I got home from work right straight through until bedtime; tonight Boo started whining at me the minute I walked in the door, everything from "I want milk!" to "That's BOOOOOORING" to "my thumb tastes nasty." I am thinking about ripping my ears off.

I made my kid cry by threatening to trash her play-doh.

My kids keep substituting the word "poop" into random song lyrics.

The house is a wreck and I'm having family and friends over tomorrow for Boo's birthday so I have a ton of clean-up to do. Plus presents, decorating, wrapping, etc.

I got called judgmental on twitter, in the process of asking people not to judge others, in regards to the whole Similac formula recall. Some people can't successfully nurse their babies. Some people choose not to. Can we all stop being MEAN about it, please?

I posted a link to a blog post about taxation an the middle classes on facebook, and started a whole thing without intending to, and called someone an asshole, and somehow got insulted for being short. I just thought it was an interesting blog post. I should really know better by now.

I have crochet orders backed up the wazoo and barely any time to work on them. I strained a tendon in my hand a few weeks ago and couldn't crochet at all for a couple of weeks, which didn't help.And I was recently reminded about some stuff I still owe people from the summer. And it practically takes an act of God to get me to the post office, I don't know why.

I got accepted as a hack writer for a content provider which is wonderful because I desperately need even the pittance that might bring in, but I have not been able to get my brain functional enough to write a 500-word article about perch fishing in Michigan. Seriously.

The cat keeps eating the dog food. The dog keeps eating the cat food.

And this is not even counting the normal, everyday woes like not having a functioning washing machine, the laundry piled everywhere, my broken tooth, the house falling apart around me, my negative checking account balance, Mimi's psychological issues, childcare scheduling difficulties, and my tendency to start crying at the stupidest things these days.

This is my life. It's insane. I wish certain things were very different. I would like to be able to pay my bills and own a house and sent my kids to gymnastics class and buy pretty things for myself.
No time, no time, no money, no time.

Really, the reason I started this post was to say, gah, I have had a crap week so here's some cute stuff to look at. But instead I made a wish list at etsy to cheer myself up. Someday when I have discretionary income again, I am going to buy myself some cute stuff and not feel guilty about being good to myself and everybody else can just bite me.

I'm here. I'm alive, and I'm grateful for that. Life is messy. The alternative is worse. I beat myself up for lots of reasons, most of them related to things listed above that aren't really even in my control. I am not the best mom in the world. Or the nicest person. But I'm the best me there is and that's what you're all going to get.

This post was inspired by this one. Please read it. It's important.

What's Going On With Us

I don't know if anyone missed me, or what, but since it seems I am blogging again, I thought I'd do a nice little catch-up post. I haven't really blogged regularly since May of 2009, and kind of a lot of stuff has happened since then. Although you might mostly know this already, since I tend to overshare on Facebook. Anyway. In no particular order (neither chronological nor in order of importance):

I got divorced. I separated from M officially in December 2008, although things had been pretty much over for about a year before that. The divorce was final July 2010, which took longer than I might have hoped but was at least fairly drama-free, as these things go. It was delayed because we filed for bankruptcy jointly before we filed for divorce. M's years of unemployment and some poor financial decisions on both our parts had got us into a hole there was just no way out of. Our house went into foreclosure in the summer of 2008, and we moved into a rental, where I still live with the girls. The only way out of that was bankruptcy. So that all sucked, but it's done. I'm still on rather shaky ground, financially, since I'm not getting much in the way of child support -- M is working, but not making much more than minimum wage, and there's a support order in but sometimes I get the money and sometimes I don't. I'm managing (some months, just barely, and I have no savings or extra) and things are hopefully starting to turn around in that regard. Emotionally, I'm good. The girls have adjusted fairly well, all things considered, although it's an ongoing process. M is around a lot, takes them to school most mornings, and we get along well. But I'm making all the big parenting decisions and most of the little ones, and paying all the bills, and yeah. It's stressful.

Mimi is now in second grade. She'll be eight in December. EIGHT. Remember when I was blogging her adoption? That was six years ago. Seriously. I didn't blog any of her first grade adventures, and I feel kind of badly about that, but it was a tough year all around. Second grade has gotten off to a bit of a rough start, but things are starting to settle down. I hope. She's dealing with some major adoption-related trauma -- her dad not being around as much has predictably brought up a bunch of abandonment issues -- but we're getting through it. She's talking about it, which is huge. She blindsides me with it at bedtime or on the way to school, but she's talking. And because her dad's disregulation was contributing a lot to her own, she's also relaxed quite a bit in the past year. Developmentally, she's still a bit behind her peers in her class, but she's come such a long way. And she read TWO CHAPTERS of a Junie B. Jones book out loud to me last night. That is remarkable. I about cried.

Boo is in full-day preschool. Seriously. She can write her name and climb to the top of the monkey bars and ride a bike with training wheels. And she will be four next Sunday. Thankfully. Because three has been extremely difficult for her and for me, and while I know she won't magically be a reasonable person next week, I can hope that the combination of being FOUR and being at school all day will turn her into more of a human being and less of a wailing banshee-child. She already has a friend, whose name she actually shared with me, and this is a big deal. Because last year at daycare, where she was two to three days a week, all day, she pretended not to know any of the other children. For MONTHS.

I started tango lessons. I'm still doing this, although not as frequently only because my schedule is all effed up right now. I love tango. I have shoes I wear just for dancing. This is remarkable, trust me, and I will be writing more about this.

I started dating. Kinda sorta. With varying degrees of success. And dealing with quite a bit of emotional that the whole oh-right-I'm-single-now thing brought up. That's an entire post in and of itself. More than one. But for the moment things are going kind of well in this department, and that's all you're going to get. For now.

I made it into the Regretsy book. Because I make these chapstick cozies, see, and sell them on Etsy. And then I made a whole bunch of them for a Regretsy book signing and the photos made it onto several mainstream sites. Never would have guessed I'd get my 15 minutes due to crocheted genitalia.

I think that's kind of the highlights. I traveled a bit for work-related conferences and classes -- Chicago, D.C., Charlottesville VA, Philadelphia. I crocheted a lot. I wrote a little. The girls and I all watched too much tv. I got drunk. I kissed some boys (sometimes while drunk). I lost a couple of friends, and made new ones. Just, you know, life. And stuff. And so now I'm back. Yay!