tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34435939963466721932024-03-13T14:49:56.235-07:00Life With Teens and Other Wild ThingsA place for parents of teens to gather, kvetch, seek advice, support one another, and find ways to survive this crazy life, together. From Mary's Penhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01407949771194206134noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443593996346672193.post-73232496933231537392017-06-23T12:04:00.001-07:002017-06-23T12:04:56.999-07:00Saying Goodbye to BellaMy son's dog has passed away.<br />
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Bella was 15+, a basset mix rescued from a shelter in PA when my son was 9.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-peU3ZNVFx5w/WU1jYqnN9XI/AAAAAAAABGI/0H0CZjL8s8AAnjW0jm9nl-vyxBA6RMzjgCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_5414.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-peU3ZNVFx5w/WU1jYqnN9XI/AAAAAAAABGI/0H0CZjL8s8AAnjW0jm9nl-vyxBA6RMzjgCEwYBhgL/s320/IMG_5414.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Hounds are outdoor dogs, not pets...<br />Or so this former country-girl thought. </i></td></tr>
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My old gal, Amanda, had passed in February. I'd been promising my son a dog for almost a year. In July I attended a writer's conference in the area and stopped in to the shelter where my friend had gotten her springer spaniel. I was hoping to find a similarly sweet and intelligent friend for my troubled son.<br />
We'd already been on quite a journey. The tantrums started at about age 3. He was recently 9, and rather than diminishing with age, they'd grown worse. There was more to come, but we already knew something was wrong. We just didn't know what, or how far we'd have to go before the road would turn for him.<br />
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When I talked to the folks running the shelter, he asked me, "How do you feel about basset hounds?"<br />
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I rolled my eyes. I had hounds as a kid, and they were noisy, slobbery, boneheaded doofuses, better kept in outdoor kennels than in the house, due to the difficulty of housetraining. My experience with hounds told me they were hunting dogs, not pets. He told me that she'd been returned to the shelter by a family that didn't look after her properly, that she was shy and sweet. I relented and agreed to meet her, knowing I would be bringing my son back later to look at puppies. Smaller, fluffier, easier, trainable puppies.<br />
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She came into the visitor's room looking anxious. She went immediately to the windows, staring out as if looking for someone. Looking for her family to come back for her. The family that had returned her, bone thin and shaking. She still wanted them. And my heart melted a little.<br />
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I brought my son in, as planned, careful to explain that he was free to choose a PUPPY. That he should meet her, but he didn't have to choose her...<br />
It was a lost cause. She was brought into the visitor's room and LAUNCHED herself at him. Wagging, wiggling, facelicking happiness embodied in a bony hound dog. "I want THIS one, Mom."<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2kxrX4nBGoM/WU1kLmYjeHI/AAAAAAAABGA/obs2Jvob-3YOwY0s76DRdHgIywC9wFTPACEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_4829.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2kxrX4nBGoM/WU1kLmYjeHI/AAAAAAAABGA/obs2Jvob-3YOwY0s76DRdHgIywC9wFTPACEwYBhgL/s320/IMG_4829.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>It took us SO long to get weight on her.</i></td></tr>
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And so it began.<br />
She came home, only to hide under the kitchen table and bark and growl at my husband. She managed, with her six-inch legs, to get on top of the kitchen table to raid the butter dish. She refused to eat at first, forcing us to get creative in concocting dishes she would nibble at, until she eventually decided to eat properly. She was so thin at first that the vet wouldn't spay her- and by the time we got enough weight on her, we discovered that my dog Charlie had been a bit frisky and there were pups on the way.<br />
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I was worried sick... She'd just gotten healthy, and the vet had revealed that her stated age of 3-4 years was inaccurate- by then she was close to 8.<br />
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She successfully delivered 11 pups, but 4 did not survive past the second day. Of the seven remaining, we were able to find homes for 5. Two of her girls remain with us to this day.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4qzSYZr6zbA/WU1jM5SWc6I/AAAAAAAABF0/hLZvOb4XYnQnGYMeUwGuRsLr-CJdXSn8wCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_3753.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4qzSYZr6zbA/WU1jM5SWc6I/AAAAAAAABF0/hLZvOb4XYnQnGYMeUwGuRsLr-CJdXSn8wCEwYBhgL/s320/IMG_3753.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Bella with her girls.</i></td></tr>
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In the past few months, I noticed a change. She was moving more slowly. Returning to her picky eating habits. Having more digestive upsets, which have been common with her, on and off, the entire time she's been with us. (We've consulted the vet before, and he told us there was nothing to be done; she simply had a sensitive digestive tract.)<br />
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A long story short... She was an old lady- past 15 now by our best guesstimate- and she was tired.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NhHfuvIf7k8/WU1kT8uaF4I/AAAAAAAABGE/k8wGSYzmmjY9c9-gFZlxS0IH8ipOS1GUQCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_4578.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NhHfuvIf7k8/WU1kT8uaF4I/AAAAAAAABGE/k8wGSYzmmjY9c9-gFZlxS0IH8ipOS1GUQCEwYBhgL/s320/IMG_4578.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>She loved the outdoors, even in winter, but summer sun on grass was her favorite.</i></td></tr>
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She spent her last day lying in the sun in the grass. At some point she wandered out by the kennel to be near her girls, content to lie there. We brought her in that evening and she had cuddles on the porch and fell asleep in one of the recliners. Fearing the evening air would be too chilly for her old bones, I moved her inside that night, into her crate with a fresh blanket. When we got up in the morning, she was gone.<br />
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This has been a journey. She was with us when my son was expelled from school in the 5th grade. When he was throwing his tantrums (Which we know now were expressions of anxiety.) When he told me he never really wanted a dog anyway, but cried when, out of sheer frustration, I threatened to find her a new home.<br />
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She taught him that some tasks- like feeding the dog and taking her out- must be completed regardless of feelings or mood. That some things are more important than our own internal turmoil. That when someone, or something, is depending upon us, we must set aside our personal challenges and rise up.<br />
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She helped him grow, helped him mature, and helped teach him empathy. She was always there with her floppy, silky ears, and her sneaky way of climbing onto the couch when she knew she was supposed to go into her crate for the night.<br />
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She was slobbery and smelly and noisy and stubborn- everything a hound dog is. She was also, for 8 years of his life, my son's friend and companion. She was a good dog, and she will be missed.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--W_S3FuDuI0/WU1iko-YGZI/AAAAAAAABFw/Idjez_NhX3c5qLqH-Ue43i8B_O7TK2iJgCEwYBhgL/s1600/Photo122.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--W_S3FuDuI0/WU1iko-YGZI/AAAAAAAABFw/Idjez_NhX3c5qLqH-Ue43i8B_O7TK2iJgCEwYBhgL/s320/Photo122.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Rest easy, old Girl. You've earned it. </i></td></tr>
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<br />From Mary's Penhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01407949771194206134noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443593996346672193.post-58927690112651861692017-03-07T11:11:00.000-08:002017-03-07T11:11:04.862-08:00Building TogetherWhirlwind... That's our lives recently.<br /><br />We're settling in, adjusting to a new family dynamic. My kids have gained a sibling and a stepfather. Beloved and Doolittle have gained two more kids and siblings. We're just getting past the "stepping lightly" polite stage of people getting to know one another and afraid to offend, and hurling into the sibling-arguments stage of "I know we haven't lived together long, but I'm not putting up with your crap" stage of security, knowing that this is here to stay. <div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GfP1Vm7gRLE/WL8FO8wVzrI/AAAAAAAABDo/JSFRUHMTB9Ej1WZAVbEQ5JK-g7lnwn5jQCLcB/s1600/foundation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GfP1Vm7gRLE/WL8FO8wVzrI/AAAAAAAABDo/JSFRUHMTB9Ej1WZAVbEQ5JK-g7lnwn5jQCLcB/s320/foundation.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>We're doing our best to build a lasting foundation.</i></td></tr>
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Some days, I get tired of the bickering and nonsense, but most days, I'm warmed by it- knowing that the kids are secure enough in their relationships to start being jerks to one another. They know that they can fight, knowing that the relationship can take the abuse. That they'll make up later. That it'll be ok- that this family isn't going anywhere, and we're in this for the long haul. </div>
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In the midst of all this, we're planning a wedding. And doing life... We just replaced our beater van with another pair of beaters- a rusty, banger of a Cherokee, and an F150 that was thrown into the deal upon agreement to let the seller have our old van (he'll scrap it out.) And life goes on. </div>
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Among all this is a sense of contentment. A sense of settling in. A sense of security in the future that we're building together. Of foundations being laid. </div>
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I don't know where this will all go. I'd love to say that I see a rosy future with his kids and mine walking linked arm in arm off into the sunset of our elder years, and us secure in the knowledge that they'll always have each other. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I hope they'll always be together. Even if they do drive one another nuts.</i></td></tr>
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<br /><br />As the children of mixed families, Beloved and I both know that may not happen. When step parents pass away, many times the children drift apart. The family created by marriage splinters in the absence of the glue that held them together. I pray that will not be the case with our children, but I know there are no guarantees. So, I welcome these days, the bickering and making up, the laughing and the goofing off and the going off together to do who-knows-what without Mom and Dad, because they are knitting their own foundations. I just pray it will hold for the long haul... that what we are building together as a family will become a shelter for our children, and our grandchildren. </div>
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Life, love, and family are precious. </div>
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From Mary's Penhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01407949771194206134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443593996346672193.post-26306079731196019612016-12-14T10:44:00.000-08:002016-12-14T10:44:03.229-08:00Triggered<i><br /></i>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5DeGZJda9hc/WFGQTBZoPsI/AAAAAAAABCM/jq-dh13iaeYbQMdOTVhk-7_liF7Of66bACLcB/s1600/flat%252C1000x1000%252C075%252Cf.u5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5DeGZJda9hc/WFGQTBZoPsI/AAAAAAAABCM/jq-dh13iaeYbQMdOTVhk-7_liF7Of66bACLcB/s320/flat%252C1000x1000%252C075%252Cf.u5.jpg" width="280" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-size: medium; text-align: start;">This meme is <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G2y8Sx4B2Sk&ab_channel=bagheadinc" target="_blank">Inconceivable</a>.</i></td></tr>
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Triggered...<br /><br />It's become a hashtag on Twitter. A Facebook meme. A joke. A sneer. Just another word that's carelessly and thoughtlessly thrown around until its meaning is battered from our universal consciousness.<br />
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What does "triggered" mean to a PTSD survivor?<br />
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It means a crippling sense of overwhelming anxiety. Literally being physically unable to function due to a breakdown in the psychological function of our minds. It may create a violent outburst, a crying fit, a panic or anxiety attack, or a period of deep depression. It may create a temporary break from reality. It could mean a flashback to the most horrible thing we've ever experienced- literally re-living the moment in our minds. This is the reality PTSD and trauma survivors live with. We are careful about "triggers" because they are events which re-open the wound and require care to regain our ability to function normally. Triggers are exhausting to deal with.<br />
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To a survivor, a "trigger" is not a joke. It's not a meme. It doesn't mean "I'm really angry about what I just saw/read/heard." It doesn't mean "I'm frustrated," "I'm sad," or "I'm upset." It doesn't mean "I strongly disagree with what's happening here," or even that I'm upset with a societal or personal injustice.<br />
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It means that a trauma survivor has been re-injured and may be in need of professional intervention. When it's used as a joke or taken out of context and used by, or to make fun of, "Social Justice Warriors" et al online, it steals our collective recognition of the PTSD and trauma survivors' experiences. It steals any cognition that their very real injuries exist. It makes an invisable wound even more invisable, and makes it even more difficult for the survivor to feel less alone, less isolated, and less ignored.<br />
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Please stop using it as a meme. Stop using it to express your outrage, frustration, or anger. Please stop belittling and mocking the condition that some of us live with. Misusing psychological terminology is not cute, clever, smart, or funny. It's cruel and thoughtless.<br />
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Trauma survivors are not special cupcakes in need of kid-glove, Politically Correct(tm) treatment. Would you make fun of a person who was recovering from physical injuries or permanent disability for their inability to function normally? If not, then why are you doing it to trauma survivors?<br />
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Please, stop hashtagging "triggered."<br /><br />"You keep using that word. I don't think it means what you think it means." -The Princess BrideFrom Mary's Penhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01407949771194206134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443593996346672193.post-26894947502498185262016-10-07T19:04:00.000-07:002016-10-07T19:05:41.856-07:00Don't Sh1t Where You EatGuys, something bad happened today.<br />
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Not horribly bad, not earth-shatteringly bad. Thank heavens, my family and friends in the path of Hurricane Matthew are all safe and accounted for. My kiddos, visiting their father in Arizona, are having a good time (so far.) Life, in general, is fairly normal in the Teens & Other Wild Things household.<br />
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At work, however... Well, not so much. Work is a frigging mess.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XCeoGIHDQ68/V_hQH7JFkFI/AAAAAAAABAw/o47Fz14uKcwwA89sml9f5__E4LQ-RDYUwCLcB/s1600/store.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XCeoGIHDQ68/V_hQH7JFkFI/AAAAAAAABAw/o47Fz14uKcwwA89sml9f5__E4LQ-RDYUwCLcB/s320/store.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Have you ever experienced that weird feeling of devastation, like the world is falling apart around you, but nothing's moving? </i></td></tr>
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I work for a small store. There are five of us- A store manager, two assistant managers, and two cashiers. I know that sounds like a lot of managers, but there must always be a "key holder" in the store- so they need to split up the hours the store is open between the Store Manager and the assistants. We're a small, fairly tight-knit group. Right now, our Store Manager is out with an injury. She's unlikely to come back any time soon. Fortunately one of our assistants is experienced and well able to take the store over. We talked about it, and thought, hey we can do this. We've got a good manager, and we can pitch in and get 'er done. No worries!<br />
Great, right?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZGEirBz_wek/V_hQ9NkAeQI/AAAAAAAABA0/aM5kUWgbv5EQrNJHJJVA8KDwZgDSQlYUQCLcB/s1600/steve.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZGEirBz_wek/V_hQ9NkAeQI/AAAAAAAABA0/aM5kUWgbv5EQrNJHJJVA8KDwZgDSQlYUQCLcB/s320/steve.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Hey, no worries! We've got a great team, right? He's got this. </i></td></tr>
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Well... Not so great, because today I learned that the second assistant was arrested yesterday. It was a gut-punch. I literally felt breathless when I got the news. I teared up. I didn't want to believe it. I've worked with this guy for a while. He's funny. Goofy. A decent manager. Just an all around good guy to work with. I wanted to believe it was a misunderstanding. A false accusation. But no... I saw the evidence with my own eyes. He was definitely stealing.<br />
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I just don't understand. WHY would anyone steal from their own store? It just makes no sense. There's an old saying: Don't shit where you eat. It's basic survival. In this case, it translates to; Don't steal from the people who pay your bills! You idiot.<br />
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Now, I'm no angel. I don't mean to come across as a sanctimonious holier-than-thou finger-pointer. Stealing's not just wrong in a moral sense; it's goddamn stupid because you will always get caught, eventually, and nothing you could gain is valuable enough to weigh against your reputation, your conscience, and your future employment prospects.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iVM9YM4HQYY/V_hSZVA_6NI/AAAAAAAABBI/K0Lk8lKwYuE93pjyl_ERMHQXc0OtotvIACLcB/s1600/thief_0.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iVM9YM4HQYY/V_hSZVA_6NI/AAAAAAAABBI/K0Lk8lKwYuE93pjyl_ERMHQXc0OtotvIACLcB/s320/thief_0.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A reputation is a terrible thing to waste. </i></td></tr>
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When my kids were small, they each went through a common stage- the pocketing a package of gum at the grocery store stage. When I caught them, in two separate incidents, I did what my own Mom did when I was about that age and pulled the same stunt- I marched them right back into the store, made them pay for the gum, apologize, and throw it away. Mean mommy? Maybe. But I pray I have instilled in them some sense of right and wrong, and that I will never get a call from my child seeking bail because they were foolish enough to believe they could steal from their place of employment (or anywhere else for that matter!!) and get away with it.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mXHStaq9qRc/V_hRcctEAlI/AAAAAAAABBA/yHwulnhtN_gT9I2v4aux-LXjegKr6dNeACLcB/s1600/stealing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="187" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mXHStaq9qRc/V_hRcctEAlI/AAAAAAAABBA/yHwulnhtN_gT9I2v4aux-LXjegKr6dNeACLcB/s320/stealing.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>It shouldn't even have to be said: Stealing is never ok. :(</i></td></tr>
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I don't know what else to say, guys. I'm sad. I'm confused. On some level, I even understand- I know what it's like to scrape for every dime on paychecks that never go far enough... but still, I'm having trouble realigning my view of this person to include the idea that he's been blatantly taking advantage of the trust of the entire team. Oddly enough, even though I'm only affected indirectly, I'm hurt. I trusted this guy. Thought he was one of the "good" ones. I'm disappointed and sad.<br />
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Goodnight, Friends.<br />
Tomorrow is a new day.<br />
Hopefully it'll be a better one.<br />
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All we can do now is clean up the mess and move on.From Mary's Penhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01407949771194206134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443593996346672193.post-8622305637402804562016-09-10T15:38:00.000-07:002016-09-10T15:38:24.532-07:00Please don't call me specialI've been called a lot of things through the years, but by far the most hurtful has been "special."<br />
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I know that sounds insane. Reverse humility, attention seeking... No, it's really not.<br />
<br />
The fact is, hearing that I'm "special" because I survived the trauma that led to my PTSD is like a knife to the gut. If I'm "special" for surviving, what does that make the other victims who did not? Less special? Less deserving? Those ideas send survivor's guilt into a spiral.<br /><br />I'm not special because I survived. I'm not special because I pieced myself back together, hid the entire thing from my family, and tried to get on with my life. None of it makes me special, or conversely, less deserving.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kX4mSbiGcEM/V9SIdFHoVSI/AAAAAAAABAI/pdhbIGBV7G8z-W2i5uhiq7vrbTJQNqEdACLcB/s1600/hidden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kX4mSbiGcEM/V9SIdFHoVSI/AAAAAAAABAI/pdhbIGBV7G8z-W2i5uhiq7vrbTJQNqEdACLcB/s320/hidden.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Hiding was a form of survival.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /><br />What happened was not an object lesson. It was not God carrying out some mysterious purpose. It was not a sound bite, a media clip, or a podcast topic. It was horrible, tragic, terrifying, and awful. It was loss. It was hate. It was anger and terror and the stuff nightmares were made of. It was not "special," and it did not make me a better person.<br /><br />The idea that God "has a purpose for everything" is ingrained in much of Christian culture. Some take comfort in the idea that, in an out of control world, God is in control always. And (I believe) he is. However:<br /><br />
We live in a fallen world. That means that God's vision of perfection- humanity working in harmony with one another and with the Earth, was derailed. We got too much knowledge too soon as a species, and, like kids exposed to something we weren't ready for too young, we're still acting out the consequences.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Vrex-PnCmTM/V9SJOdz46zI/AAAAAAAABAM/lGTN0EoUyz82TUY6PoIAj_uu_SiEDMwogCLcB/s1600/eden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Vrex-PnCmTM/V9SJOdz46zI/AAAAAAAABAM/lGTN0EoUyz82TUY6PoIAj_uu_SiEDMwogCLcB/s320/eden.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>As a friend is fond of saying "Death, loss and separation were never in God's plan for us.<br />We were not meant for death. Eden was the plan. We were made for Eden."</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
We are fallen human beings. God is sovereign. He is omnipotent- that is, he is capable of controlling everything. But does he? No, and for a very good reason- Free will. If God controls every human action, what would be the point of Creation? The entire experiment becomes completely pointless if He controls everything. Free will was the entire point of creation- we are created as autonomous creatures. That means that sometimes, we do truly awful things to one another. Out of our brokenness. Out of our own hurts, failures, and fundamental flaws, we sometimes do the worst things human imaginations can produce. The idea that God controls everything, and has a "purpose" for everything, is fundamentally mistaken. <br />
<br />
Bottom line? Not every event has "meaning." Sometimes, incredibly shitty things happen to people who don't deserve it. The trick to finding peace, at least for me, is to learn to be OK with that, to find peace in the center of a storm of chaos. Not being "special," but rather, acknowledging being caught up in the swirling insanity that was unleashed when that fatal first bite was taken.<br />
<br />
Please don't call me "special" because of what I've suffered.<br />Being myself is quite enough.From Mary's Penhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01407949771194206134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443593996346672193.post-46196342953095214532016-08-10T19:44:00.002-07:002016-08-10T19:44:56.925-07:00Her name was Rachel<div class="MsoNormal">
I'm sharing this in honor of the brave folks of the Twitterverse, who participate each week in the #PTSDChat hashtag conversation on Wednesday nights.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometime I may tell more of her story, but for now, this is as far as I can go. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The rain is falling outside and I’m not thinking of anything
really. Just watching the drops come down, splattering on the grass and road
and window, when you come to my mind, uninvited, rushing in as always all
bright eyes and out of control curls, grabbing my hand and pulling me from my
reverie. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Come dance! It’s
raining! Come dance with me!</i> <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Giggling, tugging, skipping, you lead and I follow, pulled
by an unstoppable force, unadulterated joy in its purest form. We dance… You
dance, and I watch as you spin and twirl and run and stumble and move through
the rain, letting it splash over you, letting it wet your hair, which makes it
even more unmanageable, letting it wet your face and your teeth as you smile
into the sky, laughing all the time. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dance safe my beautiful sweet girl. Let the rain fall and
splatter on the grass under your brown bare feet. Let it soak into that wild
hair and make it even more wild. Spin around and laugh and laugh. Let heaven
ring with your laughter. Let it embrace that joy and keep it safe. Someday,
maybe, I’ll be able to dance with you again. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
From Mary's Penhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01407949771194206134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443593996346672193.post-20363476452816040712016-08-09T20:38:00.000-07:002016-08-09T20:38:57.116-07:00Sticky Fingers RantDear Jerkwad-<br />
<br />
Yes, we're on first-name terms now. I hope you don't mind. I figure that cleaning up after your little "prank" this afternoon has earned me the right to call you by your given name.<br />
<br />
Did you think it was clever, opening five separate beverages, drinking about half of each, and leaving them behind the shampoo on the shelf for me to discover when I recovered my store tonight? Normally, recovery consists of making the shelves neat and pretty again after a long day of being shopped. Shoppers are notorious for making a mess of the shelves as they peruse the product lineup. This is normal and expected.<br />
<br />
Open bottles of pop on the shelf, stashed behind the shampoo? Not so much.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IzDO6C-wc5A/V6qgufWht3I/AAAAAAAAA_g/MboQrX1JAh8K9KbHBMZu2XfNcbprnrS9ACLcB/s1600/cokespill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IzDO6C-wc5A/V6qgufWht3I/AAAAAAAAA_g/MboQrX1JAh8K9KbHBMZu2XfNcbprnrS9ACLcB/s320/cokespill.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coke creates a sticky mess on a retail shelf.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
So, dear Jerkwad, I hope you'll understand if I am less than amused by your shenanigans, and if I happen to catch you leaving your ill-gotten (stolen!) beverages behind, I will surely rain down the terrors that only a provoked Mama Bear, who has spent far too many hours scrubbing, cleaning, and straightening over the years of raising her own offspring, and more recently earning minimum wage and cleaning up after thoughtless customers (which is surprisingly similar to cleaning up after children,) can unleash.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_15pYs-8dsc/V6qhIRrvIKI/AAAAAAAAA_k/GDZAfo6ugGQsHIaHjHacmIeWxPClS6wMQCLcB/s1600/bear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-_15pYs-8dsc/V6qhIRrvIKI/AAAAAAAAA_k/GDZAfo6ugGQsHIaHjHacmIeWxPClS6wMQCLcB/s320/bear.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You don't want to make me angry.<br />
You wouldn't like me when I'm angry. :-p</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
There may be bloodshed. Or, at very least, a call to the local constabulary. At any case, be warned. Your days of pop pilfering and vandalism are limited. Next time you come shop(lift)ing at my store, I'll be waiting.<br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
The Fed Up Cashier at Your Local ShopFrom Mary's Penhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01407949771194206134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443593996346672193.post-31617242295690184772016-08-02T19:27:00.000-07:002016-08-02T19:27:02.256-07:00How Not to be a Jerk to a PTSD SurvivorNever read the comments section. It's my mantra. I know better. I truly do... but sometimes I click, and sometimes I read, and sometimes some idiot will write "triggered" when what s/he meant to type is "butthurt," and my bloodpressure starts to rise.<br />
<br />
Sometimes my family or someone I love will say something that hits me like a clothesline to the knees. Sometimes I can catch my balance and stop myself from pitching head-first, but not always. Sometimes I have a bad week, and all the ignorance and well intentioned but misguided words add up, and the result is a rant. So, guys, I apologize in advance, but this is most definitely a rant.<br /><br />I hope it's a rant that will educate and edify you, if you happen to love someone with PTSD. Or, if you know someone who lives with it, like me. If you're reading this because you want to understand, thank you.<br />
<br />
<br />
Things to never say to a PTSD survivor:<br />
<br />
1) You've got to let it go.<br />
2) It's in the past.<br />
3) Why can't you just get over it?<br />
4) Why does it still bother you? That was years ago.<br />
5) I don't know... it just seems like you want attention.<br />
<br />
Let's break these down just a little, shall we?<br /><br />
1) If I could "let it go" it wouldn't be called a DISORDER.<br /><br />Stop and think for just one minute. Break it down. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.<br /><br />2) It's in the past. Yes, I know. That's what Post means- it happened in the past, yes. My condition is a result of something I experienced in the past.<br /><br />3) Getting over Traumatic Stress?- What happened was an extreme trauma. It left me deeply wounded. Do you tell a car accident survivor who's left a paraplegic that they should "just get over it," or "you know, you could walk if you tried hard enough?"<br /><br />Of course not. That would be unsympathetic, to say the least. A denial of the physical reality of their injuries. Asinine.<br /><br />So, why do people say things like that to PTSD survivors? It's ignorance, plain and simple- they don't understand what PTSD is, or that the damage, although there's not always a visible physical component- has left scars.<br />
<br />
4) It was years ago. Yes, it was. And yet, I re-live some moments as if they're happening right now. Confused? Look back at #2.<br />
<br />
5) Attention seeking, seriously? Do you think that's what this is about?<br />
<br />
Think about the word, Disorder. That, my friends, is the kicker. PTSD is a disorder.<br />Granted, it's a disorder of the mind and emotions, rather than the fragile nerves that make up the spinal column, but the damage is equally deep, permanent, and disabling.<br />
<br />
<br />
The point of this brief rant? It's not to shame or lash out. It's to educate. If you love someone with PTSD, it will be difficult to understand them at times. You may not understand their emotional out bursts, their moodiness, their withdrawal, nightmares, or other symptoms. You might not understand why they can't "just let go" of something from their past. Why they keep mentally revisiting such a dark place. Trust me, we don't do it purposefully.<br />
<br />
Have you ever seen someone put themselves into a wheelchair "to get attention?"<br />
Of course not, because although a wheelchair is an incredibly useful tool for someone who needs one, and can be fun to play with for those who don't, it's an inconvenient way to live. No one who has the ability to walk normally will put themselves through the inconvenience of using a chair all the time.<br /><br />The anxiety, depression, and other symptoms of PTSD are inconvenient, too. We don't use our coping skills because they're fun. They are our lifelines, necessary to our ongoing mental health.<br />
<br />
What can you do to help your loved one with PTSD? Just listen. Be there. Learn to recognize the bad moments, and what helps your person, whether it means giving them some space or just being there with them. Educate yourself. Learn about the disorder. Trust the survivor to know what works for him or her. Respect their need to make their own decisions. Respect their self-knowledge. Most of all, just <i>think.</i> Develop empathy. Educate yourself, and remember that the disorder is not the person. It's a part of their lives, but it's not who they are.<br />
<br />
Love,<br />A PTSD survivorFrom Mary's Penhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01407949771194206134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443593996346672193.post-11546374879250785282016-04-03T17:28:00.000-07:002016-04-07T03:06:06.844-07:00Thinking Out Loud<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="background-color: #fafafc; color: #4d4d4d; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When your legs don't work like they used to before</span></span></i></div>
<i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span></i><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><span style="background-color: #fafafc; color: #4d4d4d; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">And I can't sweep you off of your feet</span></i></span></i></div>
<i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
<span style="background-color: #fafafc; color: #4d4d4d; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="background-color: transparent;">Will your mouth still remember the taste of my love?</i></div>
</span><span style="background-color: #fafafc; color: #4d4d4d; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="background-color: transparent;">Will your eyes still smile from your cheeks?</i></div>
</span></span></i></blockquote>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lIs_3scQ4uM/VwGxufL61_I/AAAAAAAAA-o/qPMRIHPGsWkQeKMydDl6F22LK7sQlcihw/s1600/Mike%2Bn%2BMary.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lIs_3scQ4uM/VwGxufL61_I/AAAAAAAAA-o/qPMRIHPGsWkQeKMydDl6F22LK7sQlcihw/s320/Mike%2Bn%2BMary.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Just a couple of crazy kids. :) </i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="background-color: #fafafc; color: #4d4d4d; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: #fafafc; color: #4d4d4d; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Dear readers... So much has changed in these past few weeks. So much has changed, and yet so much remains the same. I feel as if I've walked through the door, into Narnia, and the world is so much bigger and brighter and more real than I ever could have imagined. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #fafafc; color: #4d4d4d; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #4d4d4d; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #fafafc; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">How did Lucy feel, I wonder, when she passed back through the wardrobe after her tea with Mr. Tumnus, trying to convey to her sister and brothers all that she had seen and experienced? It might be something close to what I'm feeling now, trying to find words to tell you how weird and wonderful, scary and joyous it is to be falling in love again at my age. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #4d4d4d; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #fafafc; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #4d4d4d; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #fafafc; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">I can tell you the facts- His name is Mike. He has a daughter, Heather. They both love animals and babies and are fanatics for an author I never heard of before, Christine Freehan. I am learning so much in a short time... how to live with severe food allergies (Heather's,) and how he likes his coffee. I'm learning to live with the fact that he's a Green Bay fan. It's not easy, dear readers, for a diehard Giants fan, but I'm learning. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #4d4d4d; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #fafafc; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fQYqhy08jFg/VwGzG4RAtlI/AAAAAAAAA-w/Efdif9K2shsJyvv2ZFeEh_CDuQZsits-A/s1600/Green%2Bbay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fQYqhy08jFg/VwGzG4RAtlI/AAAAAAAAA-w/Efdif9K2shsJyvv2ZFeEh_CDuQZsits-A/s320/Green%2Bbay.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>He's a brave man...</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="color: #4d4d4d; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #fafafc; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #4d4d4d; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #fafafc; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #4d4d4d; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #fafafc; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">There is one more thing, something that seems like a small obstacle to me, but one that does present its own unique challenges, and something I have had to consider as I fall, headlong, into a relationship I never dreamed I'd find.<br /><br />Mike was born with cerebral palsy. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #4d4d4d; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #fafafc; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #4d4d4d; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #fafafc; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">I didn't know much about CP before I met him. I vaguely knew it existed but not much beyond that. I've learned a lot since then. After the first date, a coffee meeting that started at 10:30AM and ended up stretching until 9 at night, I came home and hit up Google, because that's what I do. When I'm feeling overwhelmed and as if my life is spinning out of my control, I anchor myself with facts. I learn. I search out the information I need to make decisions. I tried to grab on to what I'd need to know- because I already knew that it was hopeless. Even if CP turned out to be an insurmountable challenge, it was too late. I was already in love with Mike and there was no turning back from the course life has set us upon. I was reading, not to discover whether I could handle loving a man who lives with CP, but <i>how</i> I would live with a man who lives with CP. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #4d4d4d; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #fafafc; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #4d4d4d; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #fafafc; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">I am still learning, my friends. The process is exhilarating and terrifying and joyous. It is like learning to ride a bike again- wobbly, and with some bumps and falls along the way, but that glorious feeling of <i>flying</i>... there's nothing like it. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #4d4d4d; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #fafafc; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I'm thinking how people fall in love in mysterious ways</span></i><i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Maybe just the touch of a hand</span></i><i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Well, me I fall in love with you every single day</span></i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>And I just wanna tell you I am</i> </span></blockquote>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: center;">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
</blockquote>
<div style="background-color: #fafafc; color: #4d4d4d; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; padding: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: #fafafc; color: #4d4d4d; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; padding: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There is so much to learn. So much to know. So much to discover. If you'd have told me a few months ago that I'd be planning a wedding for sometime next summer, I'd have laughed. Today, we picked out rings and talked about dates. </span></div>
<div style="background-color: #fafafc; color: #4d4d4d; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; padding: 0px;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YCVmdNqgn0o/VwGzTU5-pXI/AAAAAAAAA-0/UwV_VLrTHxM48ZlfRenjKtcaS97hSu-Pg/s1600/puppy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YCVmdNqgn0o/VwGzTU5-pXI/AAAAAAAAA-0/UwV_VLrTHxM48ZlfRenjKtcaS97hSu-Pg/s320/puppy.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Could this be any more perfect?<br />Life. Peace. Love. <3</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When two hearts that have been wounded by past losses come together, the fireworks are spectacular. </span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So honey now<br />Take me into your loving arms<br />Kiss me under the light of a thousand stars<br />Place your head on my beating heart<br />I'm thinking out loud<br />That maybe we found love right where we are</span></i></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I will keep you informed, dear readers. For those of you who have been with me from the beginning, and for those who have joined later in the journey, thank you, so much. Your support and kindness has meant so much, and I want to share this joy with you all. <br /><br />God bless!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">~*~*~*~*~</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>Lyrics quoted are from "Thinking Out Loud," by Ed Sheeran, courtesy of MetroLyrics.</i></span><br />
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<br />From Mary's Penhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01407949771194206134noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443593996346672193.post-61010654617820239642016-02-09T11:32:00.002-08:002016-02-09T11:53:10.362-08:00Second Chance LivingSo, I've been thinking about writing this post for a long time.<br />
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I've been thinking about the events that led to my dealing with PTSD. I've been thinking about how much I would share, and what I would not say. I'm still thinking.<br />
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There are stories, friends, that are better left untold. There are things that happen in real life that make the scenes from books that keep you awake at night seem like shadows under the bed, easily dismissed by a flashlight and a mother's kiss. There are real-life monsters, and they walk around in human skin. I don't like horror stories. I don't read them, and I don't write them.<br />
I have decided that I do not want to talk about the past. I don't live there anymore, though my mind occasionally conspires to drag me back. I live in today, in the present, with my kids and my friends and my family. This is where I choose to take my stand. This is where I will stay, and this is what I want to write about.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sometimes the only way to move forward is to take a stand.</i></td></tr>
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Life is weird sometimes, when you're living on your second chance. Some of us made bad choices as teens and young adults. For some, those bad choices led to endings, of freedom, or of life itself. I have mourned friends whose choices led them away, along paths where I could not follow. I have learned from their mistakes, but have, to my continual amazement, been spared. I am a living second chance. I often feel that I owe it to those who were not given that gift, to make the most of it.<br />
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Living on a second chance means that I don't take anything for granted. It also means that I don't have the same perspective as many of my friends and family. I don't see opportunities in the same ways they do, and sometimes that causes frustration. Why wouldn't I want to go for the management position in the company I work for? I could do the work easily enough, and the pay is reasonable. But it would mean giving up too much of the precious time I have remaining with my kids- while they're still young and living at home. I can't make that sacrifice- the money's just not worth it.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fbz9oV0Lblc/VGbRTmOhkKI/AAAAAAAAAlg/7pJ0YDsC9SE/s1600/dorks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fbz9oV0Lblc/VGbRTmOhkKI/AAAAAAAAAlg/7pJ0YDsC9SE/s320/dorks.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>My heart. My loves. My life. </i></td></tr>
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Why do I "waste" my time on writing fan fiction and making silly Youtube videos, playing a children's game and hanging out with people who do the same things with their spare time?<br />
Because, friends, there simply is not enough joy in this sometimes-dark world. There aren't enough smiles to go around. There are shadowy places in minds that are too often left unexplored and unlit. If my goofing around in a Minecraft world, or my writing stories that bring heroes to life brings even one person a bit of joy, a glimmer of hope, and gives them the nudge they need to feed their own creative spark, I will gladly labor for as many hours as it takes to make that happen.<br />
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<i>The further I get into Youtube, the more fun I have.</i></div>
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I am one of the lucky ones. I fell into a pit, and was trapped there, by the subsequent depression and anxiety related to trauma. But I have a pretty amazing family. We're not perfect- who is? And parents who, while they made mistakes, loved me and wanted the best for me, always. Those are powerful weapons in the fight against depression, and I consider myself most fortunate.<br />
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The purpose of this entry, and of this blog, is to light candles. To reach out to those who are living in that dark place. To let you know, you are not alone. You can fight back. You can find joy. You are worthy. You are loved. You are wanted. I've been where you are, and I've found my way out again. You can do it. I believe in you.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>"What if I fall??"<br />"Yes, but what if you FLY?"</i></td></tr>
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Remember that life is an adventure. Live it. Learn from it. Never stop believing. There is power in faith, and in hope, and in love. Light always wins over darkness. Always.<br />
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Safe travels, friends.<br />
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~*~*~*~*~*~From Mary's Penhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01407949771194206134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443593996346672193.post-17830980971763768122016-02-03T16:39:00.000-08:002016-02-03T16:39:25.449-08:00Attack of the WHAT??? Dear readers, I am, at this very moment, having an emotional meltdown. Over a video game. With real tears trickling. It's not pretty. It's an ugly cry, and it comes from down deep, because this is more than "just a game." This is the full circle. This is the infinity snake catching up with itself. The mobius strip making the connection... It's just a game, to be sure, but to me... it's more.<br />
<br />
Some of you, if you know me in real life, have heard me talk about Minecraft. About the connection forged between myself and my troubled tween. My son has been playing Minecraft almost from the beginning. He played the truly early stages- the first releases of the game. He would get SO excited when updates were released. He, quite frankly, drove me half mad with his chatter about creepers and endermen and zombies and mobs and mods and downloads.<br />
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Redstone was a complete mystery to me. It still is to some extent. I didn't understand the appeal of this blocky, weird game, until one day, seeing the disappointment in his face when he caught me rolling my eyes at just one more rendition of "Me and Brody got cornered by these zombies but his wolf was fighting for us and then this creeper came along and..."<br /><br />For an instant, I caught sight of just how deeply my little boy, whose father had just walked out of all our lives, was hurting. I decided to appease him in the only way I knew how- I asked him to teach me Minecraft.<br />
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It was the beginning of an era. With a lot of frustration and some swearing (mostly me) and some "Geez, Mom, you're REALLY bad at this!" eyerolling comments, he introduced me to the game. And then, in an effort to understand it better, I did what I do best - research. Research took me to Youtube, to explore the gaming channels... and that's when I discovered a whole other dimension of minecraft- Mods.<br />
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The very first modded Minecraft "lets play" Youtubers I watched were Generik B, Chimney Swift, and BDoubleOO, playing "Attack of the B-Team." Their commentary was engaging. The gameplay was intriguing. Chimney, in particular, caught my attention with his infectious enthusiasm and his mischievous approach to multiplayer gameplay. Soon, my son started playing B-Team, too, and got me to play it. I eventually upgraded my computer to better handle the modpack. Together, my son and I discovered this world. We explored it. We built things together. We laughed. We shouted. We got frustrated. We created and destroyed. We argued and collaborated. We learned... and we grew.<br /><br />These days, my son doesn't really play with me. For a while, we played servers together and built incredible things. He showed me his creative world in which he built some insane redstone projects. Even now, when he has a girlfriend and a life that is slowly carrying him away from the childish pursuits of Minecraft and further toward the interests of an older teen, he can still be drawn back in. We still watch Etho, another Let's Player, together. We discuss his builds and talk about how crazy his "sand worm" project is, and how cool. Even as my son is growing away from his early interest in Minecraft, I am building a small hobby channel and immersing myself in the community that nurtured that early interest.<br /><br />And now, a new era is opening up. Attack of the C-Team will be a sequel to the early Attack of the B-Team series. Many of the same Youtubers who participated the first time around will be involved in this remake. To call my reaction "excited" is like comparing Mt. Vesuvius to a sparkler.<br />
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This new game is about more than Minecraft. It's just a game, after all. There may be mods in this pack that I don't care for. The changes with the update may not appeal to me. I might not be as excited to play once I see what's been added and what's been taken away. Knowing all of that doesn't dim my excitement one bit.<br />
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These past few years have been... difficult.<br />My kids and I have navigated some rough waters. Not only has the divorce caused enormous emotional upheaval, we subsequently lost my best friend and my sister. Both deaths were sudden and unexpected. The devastation was deep and is lasting. For the past year or more, I've been knocked off my feet with grief, just keeping my head above water. It's only been in recent weeks that I've begun to feel as if life might have a chance of returning to some semblance of normalcy, and that the gaps left by the losses might close enough so that the feeling of continuously falling into them will end and our feet might once again touch the ground.<br />
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While no game, no exciting news, and no new adventure can possibly begin to touch the depth of the losses we've suffered, there is a moment, after one has been walking through darkness for so long, that a flicker of light can be seen. There is a moment when you realize that the tunnel you've been walking through isn't endless after all, that you will step out of it. The sun will once again warm your face, and you will feel the breeze against your fingertips. Spring will come, even after the longest winter. What is lost to the past can never be recovered, but there will be new experiences and new joys and new chances to laugh and live and breathe together. There is healing, and that, my friends, is something worth celebrating.<br />
<br />My kids have both expressed interest in exploring this new modpack together. The idea of playing together again, and discovering the ways in which we've changed, as players and in our relationships, is exciting beyond words. The fact that they still want to play with me... It's a balm to the soul. <br />So, forgive me if I dance just a little too exuberantly at this announcement. If I get a little carried away, and get just a little too excited. It's been a long, cold, dark night. I'm ready for the sun.<br /><br />Bring it on.<br /><br />From Mary's Penhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01407949771194206134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443593996346672193.post-44050196637916698042016-01-30T04:24:00.000-08:002016-01-30T04:24:51.226-08:00To Catch a Thief...Some of you may know that I've recently taken a part time job outside the home.<br />It's the first time in over 15 years that I've worked away from home, and the first time in over 20 that I've worked retail. It's been quite an experience.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This looks more familiar to me than the computerized register I use now.<br />It's been awhile since I've worked as a cashier!</i></td></tr>
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First, I'm not giving up writing. I'm still a full time freelance writer and editor. I still feel that my teens need me more than the corporate world, and prefer my home-based work for full-time employment. This job provides supplemental income, but I'm not seeking a potential career, even though there are numerous opportunities to move up within the organization. Retail can be an excellent career path for those who are willing to work hard and who enjoy both the challenges of business and customer service. To be perfectly honest, I enjoy both. Yes, customer service has its moments, and we all like to groan now and then and share horror stories from the trenches about unreasonable customers or the ridiculous situations we find ourselves in, but overall, our regulars will be some of the nicest people we know.<br /><br />Unless they're not.<br />
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There's an ongoing situation at my store right now that is surprisingly exasperating, and, I suspect, is representative of the root of most retail resentment. Our store is being plagued by a thief. Not just any thief. We have the usual spate of children, teenagers, and even adults who think nothing of opening a package, pocketing the contents, and leaving the tell-tale trash tucked behind some product on a shelf. What they don't seem to know is; we'll find that trash within hours or even minutes of their theft. Every time.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Is it worth it? Seriously? Dude that DVD costs $2. Grow up. </i></td></tr>
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This particular thief has proven to be more nervy than most. He or she isn't just pocketing the items. They are consuming them <i>in the store. </i>While it's not technically "stealing" if you open and take a sip of your Coke before you get to the register, it's generally considered improper shopping etiquette. A lot of internal eye-rolling goes on in retail, but we stifle it. As long as the customer pays for their items, even if they're doing some illicit sampling first, the customer is always right.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-O6nFbUZoiFk/Vqymro88lfI/AAAAAAAAA9M/WNhNqjlzXv8/s1600/equestria__s_most_wanted_applejack_by_snakeman1992-d4q6p4s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-O6nFbUZoiFk/Vqymro88lfI/AAAAAAAAA9M/WNhNqjlzXv8/s320/equestria__s_most_wanted_applejack_by_snakeman1992-d4q6p4s.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Seriously. Nobody cares about a couple sampled grapes, or an open soda- as long as you're<br />not actually opening packages, taking a bite, and returning it to the shelf. </i></td></tr>
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The Ensure Bandit, however, does not bother with trivialities like actually <i>paying</i> for the items they steal- that's why it's stealing and not just bad manners. This person has apparently decided they are above petty considerations like the law, courtesy, or just plain common sense. They've been coming into our store every single day, and stealing a single bottle of expensive supplements- the kind that were designed for cancer patients and the elderly who have trouble getting enough nutrition from normal meals. They simply take one bottle from a 4 or 6 pack, leaving the opened package behind. They then drink their stolen loot <i>while walking around the store browsing or shopping, </i>and simply stash the bottle behind things on the shelves. I've worked there for 2 weeks and I personally have found four of these bottles. My manager tells me they've found one <i>every single day. </i>Since each package costs between $6-10, that's a hefty hit for a smaller store like ours to take.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-646sJ-tnqZI/VqynPXTGVfI/AAAAAAAAA9U/Gg0WubYuyII/s1600/cash.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="255" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-646sJ-tnqZI/VqynPXTGVfI/AAAAAAAAA9U/Gg0WubYuyII/s320/cash.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Added up over time, thieves cost our store thousands. Not just in stolen<br />merchandise, but in extra personnel for security, as well as those expensive, annoying<br />little security tags that set off the alarm when you're walking out. </i></td></tr>
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Here's one of the things you might not know about retail- we're constantly checking shelves. It's called "recovery" and it's a big part of my job. I go around every day and straighten the product on the shelf, bringing things forward when someone's taken the first one on the shelf, moving things back to their proper space when someone's changed their mind and tossed it carelessly down.<br />
(A hint for shoppers- if you've carried something half way through the store, and change your mind, bring it to the register when you check out. Never leave it out of place- it creates more work for the employees. We don't mind putting rejected items away, we all shop, too, and have changed our minds. We roll our eyes a LOT, though, when we find things out of place due to laziness. It's frankly a pain in the butt.)<br />
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Those annoyances are minor, however, compared with the anger that bubbles up when we find those empty packages. We tag everything with security tags for a reason. We are not amused when the tags are circumvented by "clever" thieves who think they're hiding their crimes by stashing the evidence behind product on the shelves. And we do find it. The theft never goes more than a day without being discovered.<br />
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We do inventory frequently. It's the only way, in a mid-sized store like ours, to ensure that we have enough of popular products on the shelf, and we don't over-order things that haven't sold. Even with today's electronic inventory systems, these counts are necessary for accuracy. We WILL find the empty package, and we will wish the fleas of a thousand camels to infest the thief's crotch and their arms be too short too scratch.<br />
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So beware, thieves. We know about you, and we are plotting your downfall.<br />
Especially you, Ensure Bandit.<br />
You're going down.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Pretty sure they don't serve Ensure in jail. </i></td></tr>
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From Mary's Penhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01407949771194206134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443593996346672193.post-13187452844400545432016-01-26T10:27:00.000-08:002016-01-26T10:27:49.376-08:00For the Sake of the Children"<i>For the sake of the children...</i>"<br />
<br />
How often do divorce parents hear that phrase? How often is it spoken by well meaning folks giving advice?<br />
<br />
"Stay together if you can. You know, <i>for the sake of the children."</i><br />
<i>"</i>Surely it can be worked out. <i>For the sake of the children.</i>"<br />
"You really shouldn't speak badly of your spouse, <i>for the sake of the children.</i>"<br />
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Although the first two did not pan out in my marriage- we were not able to stay together, nor were were able to work out a compromise that included him staying in contact with an old girlfriend, I have done my best to remember the third. My kids have big, absorbent hearts. They soak up everything that is thrown at them, whether it's love or judgement or dismay or dislike. They've grown stronger as they've gotten older, and gotten better at discerning between the opinions of others and their own realities. They're old enough, now, to understand the deviance between their father's protestations and arguments and his actions.<br />
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I rarely write about the failures of my marriage, not because there are any secrets, but because it's a cliche'd story of a foolish wife who was blind to her husband's wandering ways. I actually encouraged his online friendship with the old flame, secure in our 15 years of marriage, and in the thought that he'd long gotten over his high school sweetheart and moved on. I had a similar teenage flame, and while I retain friendly feelings, even affection, I recognize the folly in trying to go back and even since becoming single again have not sought to rekindle the old spark.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>If left unattended, it can burn everything.</i></td></tr>
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<br />
I thought we were happy. I thought he was content. I thought she was no danger to my marriage... And I was right. She wasn't. The danger to my marriage was not a woman willing to cheat with a married man, disregarding her own family and marriage in pursuit of a teenage fantasy. The danger was in trusting in our past to cement our future. Trusting in a man who had proven over time to have narcissistic tendencies, favoring his own desires and needs over those of his family. One of our most frequent arguments was over the fact that he resisted taking our daughter for an eye exam, insisting that she "could see just fine," yet had money for his yearly hunting trips out of state and didn't hesitate to spend freely when a new gun or tool caught his eye.<br />
<br />
To be fair, we lived comfortably enough. We spent nearly 10 years renovating This Old Heap, as I have titled the 200 year old farmhouse we live in. He invested in our home. We went on an annual camping trip, which were some of our best times as a family. When he left, he readily agreed to my insistence upon retaining the house- where else would I go with our kids? Physical custody was never really a question- I'd been a stay at home mom for over 12 years.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-N5dKoHMq2SA/Vqe2xuIXJWI/AAAAAAAAA8U/1AUjvUWq0rY/s1600/IMG_2156.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-N5dKoHMq2SA/Vqe2xuIXJWI/AAAAAAAAA8U/1AUjvUWq0rY/s320/IMG_2156.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This Old Heap, with siding added, doesn't look so bad.The upper half<br />and porch were the results of our hard work. My brother added the siding,<br />in order to make the house more economical to heat, so that the kids<br />and I could afford to continue living here.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
What has made me sad, since the split, what has taken me through the stages of grief, from anger to bitterness, and finally to letting go and to peace, has been the abandonment.<br />When he left, I understood that our life together had come to an end. It had, in fact, come to an end months before. I hadn't allowed him to touch me since learning of his second round of cheating. I no longer trusted in the safety of monogamy. To be blunt, I didn't know what he might have picked up in his illicit travels and wasn't about to risk an STD. I knew, when he left, that "we" were over. And, although losing the love of 17 years was devastating, I was able to accept it.<br />
<br />
What I couldn't, and can't accept, is his continuing disregard for his children.<br />
<br />
A father should not have to be ordered by the court to support his kids.<br />
A father should recognize that children have ongoing needs, and that the "gift" of a house to the spouse who spent over a decade forgoing an income in order to raise the children does not buy them clothes or shoes, or food once he has decided to move on. <br />
A father, even if he is financially strained and/or unable to be with his kids physically, should make a consistent, on going effort to maintain communication and a relationship with his children.<br />
<br />
As I sit here reading this over, considering the words I am dropping onto the waters, to allow to drift out into the world, I am considering whether it's right for me to share these thoughts, to express the hurt and the anger. I am considering whether it's the right thing to do. I'm wondering if I should simply delete the post <i>for the sake of the children.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--KGOJWPYJiI/Vqe4INMqFOI/AAAAAAAAA8g/6KBhqXSkbw8/s1600/IMG_5017.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--KGOJWPYJiI/Vqe4INMqFOI/AAAAAAAAA8g/6KBhqXSkbw8/s320/IMG_5017.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The year he left, they both returned to public school, in order<br />to allow me more time to build my business. Because they're amazing,<br />empathetic hearts. #SoBlessed </i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
But, I feel to do so would be disrespectful to my kids. Although I try to use my words carefully, they are not stupid. It is not my thoughts or experiences that have molded their opinions. It is their own.<br />My kids love their dad, but they understand his limitations. They have a realistic view of what they can expect from him, both physically and emotionally. They take whatever opportunities they have to talk and spend time with him, but don't actively seek him out in defense of their own hearts. In spite of his assurance that they can "call him any time," they know that he is simply not able to be there for them in the ways the need him to be.<br />
I can not, and will not, pretend that our circumstances are otherwise, or that by not sharing this post, reality will somehow magically alter. It is what it is.<br /><br />I will, however, share this post, in hopes of reassuring other moms and dads who are dealing with this kind of situation- with a spouse who is not abusive or addicted, but is simply uninterested in doing their part as a parent. While abuse and addiction are horrors I am grateful we have avoided, abandonment carries its own consequences, and the scars are deep and painful.<br /><br />If you've been abandoned by a spouse or parent, my messages to you are:<br />
You're not crazy. Even if he didn't hit or yell, it's not ok to abandon children who depend upon you for support and emotional connection.<br />You're not alone. There are many of us out there.<br />
You don't have to let this make you bitter. Anger is justifiable, but dwelling on the unfairness isn't healthy. Seek out healthy relationships, for you and your kids. Build supports into your lives. Let the person go- there's no sense clinging to someone who doesn't want to be there.<br />
<br />
If you've read this far, thank you, for listening. May God keep and bless you and your loved ones. If you're a parent, remember, please, that divorce is not about your kids. It's NEVER about your kids. You really are responsible to be a parent, even if you're divorced. Even if you don't like your spouse anymore. Even if he or she is a raving lunatic- you're still responsible to BE A PARENT.<br />
Your kids need you, and that is all that matters.<br />All of it.<br />Your kids are ALL OF IT. Never forget that. For the sake of the children.<br />
<br />
Godbless.<br />~*~*~*~*~<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">“<i>To be in your children's memories tomorrow, y</i></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><i>ou have to be in their lives today</i>.” </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">― </span>Barbara Johnson</blockquote>
From Mary's Penhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01407949771194206134noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443593996346672193.post-15263218590911706892016-01-17T10:29:00.000-08:002016-01-17T10:30:50.529-08:00Been a while...Hasn't it? It's been a while since I've revisited this page. The reasons are many and mostly mundane.<br />
Holidays. Thanksgiving, and Christmas, while lovely, did take up a lot of my time and attention. I'm happy to report they were among the best we've had in the past 3 years. The kids were happy. I was relaxed. We all just enjoyed one another's company.<br />
<br />
It was lean, as always. Their gifts required careful planning and saving, but the looks on their faces when they opened them, and the use they've put them to in the weeks following, have made it all worth the effort. I rarely see Babygirl without her phone (an unlocked, off-brand that works with our text-and-talk plan, with which she can pick up wifi when she wants "data.) Thing1 carries his camera- a beginner's DSLR with more knobs and twiddly bits than I could navigate- with him nearly everywhere.<br />
<br />
And me? I got the precious hours spent with my kiddos. I got to welcome Thing1's girlfriend to spend time with us. She's got a very special place in his heart, and I'm dreading the day they split, and hope it won't be too high a drop from the clouds he's riding right now. Ah, young love... So precious, so poignant... and so fleeting. They've been friends for years. Dating for weeks. I don't know how long it will last, and, like, I'm sure, the adults in my life when I was young and in love, I'm not telling him that the ending will be inevitable and bitter-sweet.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-j0yBOHv13j0/VpvbvR9wg6I/AAAAAAAAA70/mR1FIFniJFo/s1600/Arek%2B%2526%2BRene%2BHalloween%2B2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-j0yBOHv13j0/VpvbvR9wg6I/AAAAAAAAA70/mR1FIFniJFo/s320/Arek%2B%2526%2BRene%2BHalloween%2B2015.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The goofy pair at Halloween. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
They are too young, their lives yet unripe for the stresses of marriage and babies and commitments. (and yes, we've talked, extensively, and continue to talk about the more serious side of this floating infatuation he's in now. About respect. About care. About safety and using the upper brain to control the lower one.) Let's let it suffice to say that he knows, at the very least, to keep it covered or keep it zipped. I hope that, when they part, they will retain the depth of friendship they've enjoyed since he crushed on her in the second grade.<br />
<br />
On a lighter note, I also got a gift from my kiddos, unexpected and beautiful. I had shown Babygirl a pattern online for an apron made of an old pair of jeans, and she tried her hand at sewing, with a little help and encouragement from her brother. The result was that I now have a beautiful apron, which I love. It has pockets. I love pockets. I also hate having flour all over my clothes when I'm done baking, and this is not only a beautiful gift, it's also functional. It's easily the favorite thing I've received for Christmas since I was 13 and got a Brooke Shields doll. (Hey, don't laugh! I'd just seen The Blue Lagoon, and Brooke was my heroine.)<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nJMcmyAIXus/VpvRnpvWBcI/AAAAAAAAA7g/pPeGDCGQFmo/s1600/apron.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nJMcmyAIXus/VpvRnpvWBcI/AAAAAAAAA7g/pPeGDCGQFmo/s320/apron.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You'll have to excuse the mess. It was the end of Christmas Day's<br />
dinner and we were still cleaning up when Babygirl insisted on snapping this photo. :)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Life, especially life with the challenges of mental illness, is no easy task. I could say the same, of course, of life with Crohn's, or diabetes, or lupus. I don't think I have some special burden; just the same burdens that many carry, in different forms. Some days it's not easy to get up and get out of bed and keep moving forward, especially with the uncertainties of freelancing for a living. The income is sporadic, and a client's disappointment may mean the loss of a job. I have to strive, with everything I write, to stay on point, to stay relevant, to stay connected and to express the client's expectations and desires. That sort of constant effort can be exhausting, but it's also what keeps me moving forward. It gives me purpose.<br />
<br />
Parenting is, in many ways, the same. We all carry our personal burdens, but the children we're responsible for must be shepherded, fed, clothed, sheltered, and led. Their disappointment doesn't lead to the mere loss of a job; it can leave lasting scars that destroy lives and carry forward into new generations. The time I've put in these past few months, the efforts to put together a simple holiday celebration and to invite in those who are connected to our family by the unfamiliar strands of teenage ardor, seem to me to be the most important job I could've been doing. I may be putting things too high, thinking that these hours will have a stronger impact on my growing young adults' lives than they will. I could be wrong about Thing1 and his lovely young partner. They could go on to marry and have children of their own, as my own in-laws did, marrying when she was just 17 and he was 19. Fifty years and counting, they're a walking love story.<br />
<br />
But for now, all I have is experience to go by. All I have is my own memories of young love, and memories of the hours contentedly dressing up a Brooke Shields doll while Mom prepared the meal and Dad smoked his pipe in his chair while watching the Macy's Parade. Those are the memories that reassure me that my son will come out of this relationship changed, with new experiences and a new perspective. Perhaps with new scars, but ones that will heal and that will shape him, and make him, in the end, a better man. Those are the memories that assure me that my own kids will look back, one day, and remember the holidays as a happy time with their family and loved ones, something that they will want to recreate for their own children.<br />
<br />
All we can do is keep moving forward, and doing our best.<br />
I hope, if you're reading this, that you had a beautiful ending to 2015 and that 2016 brings you new joys, new experiences, and new hope.<br />
<br />
God bless, Friends.<br />
A belated, but sincere, Merry Christmas to you and yours.<br />
<br />
~Mary<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">“<i>There is no such thing as a "broken family." Family is family, and is not determined by marriage certificates, divorce papers, and adoption documents. Families are made in the heart.</i>"</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">-C. Joy Bell</span></blockquote>
From Mary's Penhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01407949771194206134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443593996346672193.post-83912694465689806692015-09-29T07:24:00.000-07:002015-09-29T07:24:06.470-07:001 in 3<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6OiFK0rmpU8/VgqbeORWiaI/AAAAAAAAA5M/4mFJuUOopzg/s1600/Pregnancy_ultrasound_110322105347_1056300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="275" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6OiFK0rmpU8/VgqbeORWiaI/AAAAAAAAA5M/4mFJuUOopzg/s320/Pregnancy_ultrasound_110322105347_1056300.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
When I was 2, according to a faint whisper amongst the cacophony of family stories, a member of my family had an abortion.<br />
<br />
I won't say which member or how she's related. Her story is not mine to tell, nor am I clear enough on the details to write about it with confidence. The story was told in a dark moment of desperation, and today I am telling it for one reason only: to explain the impact it has had on me. Because, that's MY story, and the only one I can tell.<br />
<br />My first response was a lightbulb. Oh. That's why she hates me. My very existence created a difficult and painful situation. And so many things fell into place.<br />
<br />
I've begun to write this entry half a dozen times, but I am realizing that I can't tell the full story, even my part in it, without revealing more than I have a right to share. So, I will stick to the point- what the story is meant to illustrate:<br />
<br />
When we talk about abortion, we often talk about choice, rights, and morals. We talk about the right to choose. We talk about a woman's right to control her own fate, her own destiny. Many on the other side dismiss those "rights" as invalid- saying that the woman had the "right" to choose to have sex, to live a lifestyle which might lead to pregnancy. And both sides have a point.<br />
<br />
A woman does have the right to choose whether she will engage in, or abstain from, sexual activity. But, pointing that out too often dismisses the responsibility that is carried, not only by the woman, but by the men with whom she partners. When abortion comes up, the moral responsibility is always on the woman, but we rarely hear about the boyfriend or husband who got her pregnant. It's HER choice, after all. And, shouldn't it be? If she's being called upon to risk her health, and to take ultimate responsibility for a child, shouldn't she have the right to choose?<br /><br />Some will say an unqualified absolutely yes, and some will say no. I am not here to debate those answers. I am only here to talk about my experience, and maybe, to explain why I feel the way I do.<br />
<br />
The fact is, abortion is not a cut-and-dried "yes" or "no" answer. It is not something upon which we can stamp a label, it is not something that fits neatly into a box of morality or feminism or rights. If you think there are pat, cut-and-dried answers, you lack the emotional and intellectual maturity to enter into the discussion.<br /><br />Medical science and many on the pro-choice side will tell women that they have absolute autonomy over their own bodies. Except when they don't. Pregnancy is not the only choice over which we lack complete control. Cancer, for example, takes away our "right" to choose our life path. As does, more relevantly, infertility. The bottom line is, we don't always have a choice in how our lives will play out.<br /><br />On the pro-life side, many will tell women they are "murdering a baby," a phrase which is repugnant in its accusatory, hateful tone. It dismisses the mother as a "murderer," tossing her aside in favor of a mythical child which is not even yet a fully realized human being. It dismisses the many, MANY stories of women who are in abusive situations, who are faced with the very real choice of living a life of poverty if they carry a child to term. Who have no supports to carry them as they raise a child. The village becomes very silent when a single mom steps forward. The very people who would strip a woman of her right to choose post memes degrading foodstamps and other welfare programs- vital programs that, if more generously funded and administered, might make it possible for a woman to both become a mother and to have a career which will support herself and a child.<br />
<br />
The hypocrisy on both sides is sickening.<br />
<br />
I support a woman's right to choose- not because I believe that abortion is ever the right answer- but because I believe in respecting a woman's intellectual ability to make choices for herself, and yes for her unborn child. I believe in a woman's right to choose, the same way I believe in parents' rights to raise their children. Yes, some parents will abuse their children, and that is tragic. And some women will choose abortion. Also tragic. But the way to prevent it is not to remove parental rights and put children in the charge of the State, nor is it to remove women's legal rights.<br />
<br />
If we want abortion to end, we must work harder at education. At providing options. At making having a family an affordable, viable way of life. Affordable daycare. Reasonable concessions for working parents- many countries offer a YEAR of paid leave to new parents. A year. Not six weeks. Many countries actually value children and families, and show it in ways that put America to shame. Affordable, accessible adoption. Better options for women who want to bring a child to term but don't feel able to raise one. Better education for families and for individuals about the entire process.<br /><br />If we want abortion to end, we must teach our young men respect for their partners, and responsibility. We must teach our young women the TRUTH about birth control (it fails at least 1% of the time, some methods more often,) and the truth about the risks they take when engaging in sexual activity, without telling them that sex is ever a shameful thing. It is an expression of love, but it also comes with a commitment to the other partner. It's not just about selfish pleasure. It's something that is exchanged, not something that is simply gained, and it is a precious transaction.<br />
<br />
How dare we call sex shameful? How dare we shame a woman's choice to share herself with a fellow human being? How dare we call an act which results in the conception of a child evil (except when it is the result of a selfish and violent choice, and not a partnering between two willing adults.)<br />
<br />
And there ends my carefully controlled rein on my emotions.<br /><br />
<br />
HOW DARE YOU call a woman in MY family a murderer? HOW DARE YOU?<br /><br />Who do you think you are, to make a judgement like that? Who do you think you are, to look at this person, whom you know NOTHING about, and judge her?<br />
<br />
You want to talk about rights? You have none in this place. Not without knowing her. Not without hearing her story, and the stories of all the women who have made this very personal choice. Even hearing the story, you have no place. You have not stood in her shoes. You have not lived her experience. You have not faced her demons. It is not your choice to make.<br /><br />Learn to love. Learn to LISTEN to the stories. Read the #ShoutYourAbortion stories. Read these women's experiences. Understand what led them to make the most painful and personal decision of their lives. Until you can weep for these women, for all that they face, and all that they suffer, until you acknowledge and recognize the women who are ALSO SOMEONE'S BABY, someone's mother, someone's sister, someone's cousin, someone's niece, you have no right to talk about abortion. None.<br /><br />So, unless you can speak with empathy, and support the policies that will make families strong in America again, kindly shut up. That's someone I love that you're talking about.<br />
<br />
I will not "shout" her abortion, but you can be very sure that I will shout in her defense, and you may not like what I have to say, but until you can hear the words, until you can understand the grief and the loss, and the hope that comes after the trauma, until you can begin to contribute to the healing, you will have no place here in this sacred space surrounding my family.<br /><br /><br />From Mary's Penhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01407949771194206134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443593996346672193.post-51957700423255102472015-08-19T10:54:00.000-07:002015-08-19T10:59:31.638-07:00Today was a dayToday was a day.<br />
<br />
Today, the sun rose. It shone through the window and lay on my face, insistent. It pushed through my eyelids. It wouldn't let me go back to sleep. Today my cat lay on the blanket, anchored as firmly as a boulder, unwilling to relinquish her soft and her warm. Today the two, the sun and the cat, battled silently. The sun won.<br />
<br />
Today I showered and dressed and went out with my dogs. Today they frolicked in the grass and wrestled and sniffed and rolled. Like every day.<br />
<br />
Today I came in and worked, reaching out to the world and creating, through a little screen and a keyboard.<br />
<br />
Today I was restless and sad. Today I remembered. Today the memories spilled over and leaked down my cheeks. Today I felt tired of feeling tired, and the road and the memory of happier times called me. We walked together, the memories and I. The breeze whispered over my skin and the sun shone smugly warm, victorious over the cat, who was still curled on the bed, sulking in her soft and warm.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AYYhncEmxVg/VdTD8iARGXI/AAAAAAAAA4c/229NQeS-rJg/s1600/IMG_3475.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AYYhncEmxVg/VdTD8iARGXI/AAAAAAAAA4c/229NQeS-rJg/s320/IMG_3475.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Today I found a tiny plastic cow on the road, and wondered about the child who lost it and the story of how it came to be there. Today I found a smooth, white stone and remembered gathering them as a child, treasures that exasperated my mother when she had to empty them from pockets in the wash.<br />
<br />
Today, I walked as far as I could before I had to turn back. The grass was lush and green and soft under my feet. The sun smiled on and on, and the breeze whispered and hushed through the trees.<br />
<br />
Today I didn't get a letter from a friend in the mail, but a book came, and that was almost as good.<br />
<br />
Today was a day. A day I decided to go for a walk. To look for the beautiful things. To feel the sun and the breeze and the grass.<br />
<br />
Today was a day I decided to go on.<br />
<br />
<br />
~*~*~*~*~<br />
<br />
For those of us who live with the symptoms of PTSD like anxiety and depression, every day is a choice. We get up. We move through our days. We choose, every single day, whether and how to continue living.<br />
<br />
If you are dealing with anxiety and depression, remember, you are not alone.<br />
It gets better. Every day you have a choice to make. Today, I've chosen hope. I hope you will, too.<br />
Safe travels, friends.<br />
MaryFrom Mary's Penhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01407949771194206134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443593996346672193.post-60309234845041934392015-05-28T09:59:00.000-07:002015-05-28T10:00:37.583-07:00Of Love and Loss and Moving OnThis is a re-post, from my now-defunct blog, Life, Dreams, and a Turtle, from January 2013.<br />
<br />
In October of 2012, one of my best friends, Laura Curtis, passed away. The loss was sudden, and I was the one who got the call- I was the last person on her phone, and the person the State Troopers contacted in an effort to locate her next-of-kin.<br />
<br />
Devastation has no words for this kind of loss. I miss her, and my sister, who passed suddenly just two years later, in August, every single day.<br />
<br />
For those who never visited Life, Dreams, and a Turtle, Kame (pronounced Kah-may), is my Eastern Box Turtle.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<tr><td><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wY7cBwjtzP4/UO2SjN47cII/AAAAAAAAAQI/l8kPqYxwQIQ/s1600/IMG_1629.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="color: #993322; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wY7cBwjtzP4/UO2SjN47cII/AAAAAAAAAQI/l8kPqYxwQIQ/s320/IMG_1629.JPG" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; background: transparent; border: none; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 10.8192005157471px;">My notes in church are often less.... lyrical, than you might think.</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;"> </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;"><span style="background-color: white;">Kame has once again slipped into hibernation mode. His torpor means that he disappears for days at a time, emerging only occasionally to explore the offerings of fresh raspberries and take a short dip in his bathing tub, before disappearing beneath the mulch once again. He deals with winter by avoiding it entirely, passing it half-asleep and hidden.</span></span><br />
<br style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;">Not for the first time, I find myself envying my shelled friend's ability to sleep through the less pleasant months of the season. I, too, have been hibernating, in a way. I've been avoiding speaking out about many of the emotions rolling through my days as I move forward, because so many of them have to do with other people, and I have vowed that this blog will be about my own life, and not a clearinghouse of gossip about others.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;">It might not be possible for me to blog without mentioning what's going on in my ex's world, or in my children's, but I'm trying not to air anyone's laundry but my own.</span><br />
<br style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;">So much has happened since I last wrote. October brought with it a shocking blow with the loss of a very old and dear friend. Laura Kim Eisele Curtis was one of the best friends I've had. She put up with my ramblings, my oddities, my failures and my quirks. She made me laugh. She made me less ashamed of my PTSD symptoms and helped me see it as a condition to be managed, rather than a weakness. She stood beside me as I walked through some of the most difficult times in my life, and she allowed me to be a part of her life as she dealt with her own losses, blows and failures. Her passing was devastating, and a loss to the world, though most will never know what they missed by not knowing her.</span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.498039) 1px 1px 5px; background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.498039) 1px 1px 5px; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 8px; position: relative; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-phBRqrCtCAY/UO2Ssj72EVI/AAAAAAAAAQQ/jndV2Qsf2b8/s1600/Laura+and+Don.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: white; color: #993322; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-phBRqrCtCAY/UO2Ssj72EVI/AAAAAAAAAQQ/jndV2Qsf2b8/s320/Laura+and+Don.jpg" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: none; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 10.8192005157471px;"><span style="background-color: white;">My beautiful friend Laura, with her dad, Don, being a goof in the background. She had a quirky sense of humor that she came by honestly.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><br style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;" /><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;">There are many things that Laura shared with me that I will take to my grave, but I can tell you a few things about my dear friend. She was a great singer and an amazing mom. I will forever hear her voice singing "You Are My Sunshine" to her daughter over the phone at bed time on the occasions she stayed at my home. There is surely no sound more beautiful in the world. She was a good friend. I can't count the times she listened to me and let me run on. She gave me good advice. She was the one who encouraged *cough*dragged*cough* me into seeking out a college degree. She has been my friend, my support, and my confidant for well over ten years... and now she's gone. Just like that, in one dark night, she left this world and traveled beyond the veil.</span><br style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;" /><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;">And even now, she is with me. </span><br style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;" /><br style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;" /><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;">I could </span><i style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;">hear</i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;"> her beside me, snickering, at her final service, as the Pastor's voice rose in song. He had a lovely voice, but Laura often attended my son's guitar lessons with me, and we had sat, barely containing school-girl giggles, through many voice-student's renditions of "New York, New York". Since her parents live near the Big City, and my favorite fictional heroes are rumored to occupy its sewer system, the song made us giggle all the more. I could feel her arms around my shoulders, even as I cried. I could hear her voice in my dreams, in the wretched days after her passing, laughing and exclaiming, "but Mary, I'm here with MacKenzie! I'm dancing... I don't hurt anymore..."</span><br style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;" /><br style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;" /><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;">Her baby daughter who succumbed to SIDS was waiting for her, I know. And although she has left two other beautiful young women behind, I know the joy of that reunion will be complete when we all come together in Eternity's time. Laura knows no grief now, no pain. She has stepped out of time, and into the place where there are no more tears, no more sorrows. It is only those of us who are left behind who grieve for the parting. I could feel her presence again, more faintly, when I achieved my first college degree. I could hear her voice, quietly telling me "I'm proud of you, Friend. You did it."</span><br style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;" /><br style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;" /><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;">Laura has moved on, and although I was not ready, could never be ready, to lose my friend, I know that this parting is a part of life. Death's pain is the echo of the separation Man took from God in the Garden, and it is eased by the knowledge that the gap has been closed by His son, that this world is healing. Death is a scar in the eternal tapestry, nothing more.</span><br style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;" /><br style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;" /><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;">And now, it is time for me to move on, to move forward in my own life. I can not hold on to the hurts and worries and grief of the past year. I can not hold on to the man who was once my husband, or allow his choices to guide my emotions any longer. I must come to a place where I can see him building a new life of his own, and be able to smile and wish him well. I have not yet reached that place. I don't know how long it will take, but I do know that the only way for healing to begin is to remove the splinter of bitterness and anger.</span></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.498039) 1px 1px 5px; background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.498039) 1px 1px 5px; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 8px; position: relative; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HeOkM9LOypo/UO2TcMHoq2I/AAAAAAAAAQY/iEzypEdGXVg/s1600/Leaves.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: white; color: #993322; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: none;"><img border="0" height="295" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HeOkM9LOypo/UO2TcMHoq2I/AAAAAAAAAQY/iEzypEdGXVg/s400/Leaves.jpg" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: none; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 10.8192005157471px;"><span style="background-color: white;">A painting from my college Illustration class, with a quote that I hope, will define the new year.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><br style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;" /><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;">Someone very wise once said that revenge is like a splinter. It festers and poisons the mind. The only way to heal is to let it go.</span><br style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;" /><br style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;" /><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;">The river is moving on... and I must step into it once again, and find a new way. </span><br style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;" /><br style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;" /><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;">-Mary</span><br style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;" /><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5240001678467px; line-height: 20.2859992980957px;">~*~*~</span></span>From Mary's Penhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01407949771194206134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443593996346672193.post-87419546141480071342015-05-23T07:10:00.000-07:002015-05-23T07:11:24.769-07:00What if Josh Duggar were my son? I remember most clearly that he was not circumcised.<br />
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When I had my first adult encounters with men, I was shocked to realize there was a physical difference. In a way, it made it easier for me. My partners were not him. They were different. It was such a small thing (no pun intended,) but it helped me differentiate in my mind the man who abused me from the men, later, who became lovers.<br />
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I went to his funeral when I was 15 years old. When I heard he'd passed away, I needed to see for myself. I needed to know, for sure. It brought me no closure. I wanted to be angry. I wanted to hate him. I wanted to imagine him burning in hell, because that's what the very few people who knew what he'd done, told me I was "supposed" to feel. I felt nothing. Knowing he was facing the finality of God's justice did nothing to fill the emptiness. It wasn't until many years later, with good counseling that addressed the incidents within the larger context of my childhood, that I was able to, finally, lay him to rest in my heart, to bury him in a place where he has no effect upon my thoughts or feelings any longer. If anything, I feel pity for the man who was so lost, damaged, and selfish that he had to seek out a four year old for what he couldn't get from a woman his own age. <br />
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There's been a lot of social media outrage over the news that Josh Duggar has admitted to molesting several girls as a teenager, including his own sisters. There are sarcastic posts, laughing and jeering at this self-appointed paragon of family values. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.<br />
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I've been fairly quiet about the whole thing, mostly because I've never seen 19 Kids and Counting. The entire "quiver full" concept is ridiculous, (not to mention Biblically unfounded,) and putting it on public display is even more so. I rarely watch television at all, and couldn't be bothered with TLC's "reality television." (I use the word "reality" very loosely here.)<br />
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It feels as if, as a Christian and having recently joined the ranks of the other Mommy Bloggers, carving my own little niche in our rich and varied world, that I should say something about this whole scandal. Something in defense of my faith. In defense of my religion, which is under subtle attack by those who "don't understand organized religion" (a direct quote from another blogger,) and who blame Christianity and churches for the closeted, backward lifestyle the Duggars promote. It makes me want to cry, "Not all Christians!" Maybe we need a new #hashtag for the occasion?<br />
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But how can we defend Christianity without seeming to defend the Duggars and their abysmal handling of their son's behavior?<br />
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Having grown up in a similar culture, thankfully minus the "quiver full" philosophy, which is fairly new to Christianity, I can see how this story unfolded, through the eyes of parents who were faced with the devastating knowledge that their son had done the unthinkable.<br />
<br />
I can understand how they must have felt. Shocked. Horrified. Angry. Grieved. How they must have prayed. Where could they turn? Who could they trust? Even modern psychology is silent on the idea of <i>treating</i> juvenile sex offenders. Incarceration seems to be the only answer society has. Lock them up! Throw away the key. Never let them see the light of day again.<br />
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It's easy, as a mom, to embrace the idea of punitive justice. It's easy to be angry on the behalf of those girls, (as we should be.) It's to point the finger at the homophobic hate merchants who claim to speak the Word of God. It's easy to think LOOK! Look what happens when you let your kids get religion! They get all weird and then they COVER UP THINGS LIKE THIS! This is what God brings you! Weirdness and perversion!<br />
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But aside from the subtle, and not-so-subtle blanket condemnation of my religion, which is no surprise to me- it's been going on since the Romans used Christians dipped in tar to light their garden pathways- What went wrong in the Duggar's handling of their son's transgressions? We all know what they did wrong in seeming to gloss over their girls' experiences, but what about how they handled their son's actions? That is, after all, the focus of most of the blogs I've seen- condemning how the parents handled the revelation that their son was a pedophile.<br />
<br />
What, precisely, should the parents have done? Should they have turned him in to the local police, so that he could be arrested, finger printed, and put in Juvenile hall? Should he have had a permanent record filed, marking him as a "sex offender?" Perhaps he should have. Justice, in these cases, is important for the victims. It is necessary to acknowledge the horror they suffered. It is necessary to hold the offender responsible for his actions.<br />
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In the long term though, what do we do with teen like Josh Duggar? What would you have done if it was your son? How would you handle the news? How would you try to get to the root of what has gone wrong in his psyche? <a href="https://www.bja.gov/evaluation/program-corrections/sops1.htm" target="_blank">Current treatment programs</a> are limited in their scope, and have a varying rate of success.<br />
<br />
It appears that the Duggars sought out what, for them, passed as "counseling". They went to the church elders. They turned to a family friend who was a police officer (who was later found to be as guilty as Josh himself, with files of child pornography populating his computer.) They put him in a work-straight program of some kind.<br />
<br />
In the Duggar's eyes, they gave their son a chance to recognize the horror of what he'd done, and to redeem himself, a chance that most writers seem to think he didn't deserve. As a mother of a teenage son, that cuts at my heart. What if it were MY son who was caught doing what Josh did? Wouldn't I do anything to "fix" him? What would I have done? While my church does offer lay counseling, and my relationships would lead me to go to the elders for advice if I faced something like this, their answer would be "go to the police." And then what? Once justice is served, what do you do with the boy who is still there, who still has to live the rest of his life with what he's done?<br />
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In my family, it's more likely that one of my kids would be a victim than a perpetrator. Both my kids are empathetic to a fault, and both have been raised with a strong knowledge of boundaries, because of my own experiences. Both understand the concepts of <a href="http://www.themamabeareffect.org/" target="_blank">body safety, respect, and consent</a>.<br />
<br />
I know what I would do if my daughter were a victim. I'd seek out counseling for her. I'd ensure that she never felt as if she were "broken" or damaged by what had been done to her. I'd make certain the perpetrator was called out for his actions. I'd seek justice.<br />
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But what would I do if things were different? What if my son were accused? What if he confessed? Is it possible that, with proper counseling and redirection, a young sex offender can change? Can be healed, so that he knows and respects proper boundaries? Can empathy be learned? Can he be redeemed?<br />
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In all this furor, I wonder, will anyone ever give Joshua Duggar a chance to prove that he has learned from his incredibly bad choices, and that he has the ability to develop empathy and remorse? Or will we burn him at the pyre, dancing with glee over the fall of a conservative family who have a lot to learn about forgiveness, tolerance and compassion?<br />
<br />
I know what could, and should, have been done differently for the victims. I grieve for them. I hope that they get the help they need to move on, and to move out from under the cloud of the idea of a permanently damaged "victim" that society puts on young girls who've experienced sexual abuse. <br />
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I wonder what more should have been done for Josh Duggar, the teenage boy who committed a horrific act, for which he will pay for the rest of his life.<br />
<br />From Mary's Penhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01407949771194206134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443593996346672193.post-65069335594507315702015-03-28T08:23:00.000-07:002015-03-28T08:23:40.573-07:00The Three Bears and CPS- A Mixed Up, (but true) FairytaleOnce upon a time, friends, there was a family. They were a nice family, neither too hot nor too cold. Quirky. Charming. Fun.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hHNiTKo2Rg4/VRbBDYb4HPI/AAAAAAAAA1Y/xhhKcq-X6GA/s1600/3%2Bdorks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hHNiTKo2Rg4/VRbBDYb4HPI/AAAAAAAAA1Y/xhhKcq-X6GA/s1600/3%2Bdorks.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Bear Family, aka The Wild Things.</i></td></tr>
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The family consisted of a Mama Bear and her baby bears, Babygirl, and Thing1. They used to live with a Papa Bear too, but an old girlfriend, a trip to Vegas, and a midlife crisis later, Papa Bear moved away, to be heard from only sporadically.<br />
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The three remaining Bears were a bit sad, but they had lives to live, and overall, were living happily ever after in their old farmhouse in the country.<br />
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Babybear Thing1 went each day down the lane to the Big Bad Wolf School. Big Bad had reformed. He no longer eats children, instead, he set up a school to teach them The Ways of The World. Baby Bear Babygirl had already finished learning The Ways of the World, and had graduated from the Big Bad School, earning herself a place in the hallowed halls of the Forest College.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7jnSJTjDWKo/VRbBjzYVUXI/AAAAAAAAA1g/UJ6LLXWugWw/s1600/Big%2Bbad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7jnSJTjDWKo/VRbBjzYVUXI/AAAAAAAAA1g/UJ6LLXWugWw/s1600/Big%2Bbad.jpg" height="291" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Little Bear, Little Bear, come to my school...</i></td></tr>
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The Bear family had a long, complicated history with Big Bad's school. They'd escaped, for a while, into the neighboring realm of Homeschooltopia, but when Papa Bear left Mama Bear the sole provider of the porridge, they'd returned.<br />
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BB Thing1 did well for a time, learning important things like the Pythagorean Theorum, which will come in handy one day if he's ever confronted by the Pythagorean Virus. But BB Thing1 was unhappy. Mama Bear wasn't sure what the problem was, if he'd been infected with the dreaded Mathitus, or was struggling with some other malady. The Bear family sought advice from the Magical Doctors of Healing, who tsk'd and shook their heads and waved their wands, all to no avail.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5sdAO3UW3ao/VRbB5CbSXrI/AAAAAAAAA1o/WB2X8Dk5SHw/s1600/Pythag%2Btheorum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5sdAO3UW3ao/VRbB5CbSXrI/AAAAAAAAA1o/WB2X8Dk5SHw/s1600/Pythag%2Btheorum.jpg" height="195" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Mythical Pythagorean Scrolls reveal the Secrets of Maths, if you can translate the runes.</i></td></tr>
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<br />
Mama Bear continued to parley with Big Bad's staff, She wanted BB Thing1 moved into special classes. Big Bad huffed and puffed. He wanted Thing1 in <i>school</i>, period. No special classes. No extra servings of porridge or injections of Math. Only if the Magic Doctors of Healing specified special classes would he (reluctantly) relent.<br />
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Mama Bear received word from the Magical Doctors that they had turned down her request for Special Classes. Not warranted, they said. Sorry, they said. Common Core is pushing too many of our Forest Children into Special Classes, and they are overcrowded. Nothing we can do.<br />Mama Bear was dejected, but determined to make Big Bad listen to reason.<br />
<br />
And then came the call. Agent Goldilocks, from Forest-Child Protective Services, wanted to talk to Mama Bear about BB Thing1's education. She'd received a report, she said, about Thing1's attendance. It wasn't up to Forest Education Regulations. This was a problem.<br />
<br />
Mama Bear nearly panicked. She was so angry she shook. FCPS didn't have a great reputation. They often took Forest Children from their homes, forcing them into Big Bad's school, removing their options and making them take the potions the Magical Doctors of Healing prescribed, whether or not those potions actually had any effect in the past. Mama Bear knew she had to act fast, to save her Baby Bear.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-g6aZtB-eyUE/VRbC27t0XTI/AAAAAAAAA10/GC0pPeB-60k/s1600/Mama%2Bbear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-g6aZtB-eyUE/VRbC27t0XTI/AAAAAAAAA10/GC0pPeB-60k/s1600/Mama%2Bbear.jpg" height="226" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Never... EVER get between a mama bear and her cubs. </i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
She called in her Sister Bear for help. Sister Bear came to Mama Bear's house, and swept through it like a hurricane, cleaning, straightening, and ensuring everything was ready for Goldilock's visit. Sister Bear called Brother Bear, who had dealt with Goldilocks before, and in fact had adopted Forest Children who had been in Goldilock's care. The Bear family came together to face this new threat, as they always had.<br />
<br />
When the Sister Bear had left, and Brother Bear hung up the phone, Mama Bear was left to face the upcoming visit. She had trouble sleeping, shifting between fear, anger, and frustration. She couldn't eat or concentrate on her work of filling the porridge pots. What if Goldilocks wanted to take BB Thing1 away? What if Big Bad was right? What if she was a bad Mama Bear, and BB Thing1 would be better off with another Forest Family? Or living with Papa Bear, even though he only contacted the baby bears once every few weeks or so?<br />
<br />She kept her baby bears close, and prayed.<br />
<br />
Goldilock's visit was rather anticlimactic in the end. There was no blustering, no huffing or puffing. Goldilocks reviewed Mama Bear's emails to the Big Bad school. She spoke with the Magical Doctors of Healing. Mama Bear revealed her plan to return to the realm of Homeschooltopia, to heal the bumps and bruises BB Thing1 had developed from being pushed and pulled between the Big Bads and the Magical Doctors. She feared Goldilocks would disapprove of the plan, and try to stop the Bears from fleeing to Homeschooltopia.<br />
<br />
Goldilocks called Big Bad's tactics "bullying," and assured Mama Bear that "the school isn't always right." She told the Bears that their family "seemed very strong," and that they were doing just fine. She assured Mama Bear that Forest Education Regulations did indeed allow the family to move to Homeschooltopia, and in fact she thought the plan was a good one. In addition, she recommended a Forest Services Grant Program, that could help Mama Bear with some of the problems the humble home had developed, as a natural result of being 200 years old.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TqXYiRlD3Eg/VRbGCRjeRZI/AAAAAAAAA2M/YVmTPM2XkUQ/s1600/law.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TqXYiRlD3Eg/VRbGCRjeRZI/AAAAAAAAA2M/YVmTPM2XkUQ/s1600/law.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Agent Goldilocks represents The Law.<br />Big Bad was trying to use her to force Thing1 to attend his school without conditions or concessions.<br />Turns out, The Law was on the side of the Bears all along.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Goldilocks declared the case "Closed," and wished Mama Bear and her Baby Bears good luck.<br />
<br />
The Bear family happily and swiftly packed their things to depart to the realm of Homeschooltopia, writing the necessary letter to tell Big Bad where he could stuff his school and his Forest Education Regulations Attendance Policy, that very day. They knew they had a lot of hard work to do, building a new base of education for Thing1 to climb to the Hallowed Halls of College from, but since their School would be an individual bridge for BB Thing1 to climb, the task isn't insurmountable.<br />
<br />
The morals of the story are multiple:<br />
<br />1) Education is a fluid concept, and it is as individual as each family. Homeschooling is the right path for some. Private or charter school, or public education, for others. All options are equally valid. It's important that each Forest Family choose the right one for them.<br />
2) While not all schools are run by the Big Bad Wolf Corp. (LLC), those that are require Mama and Papa Bears to stand up for their children's legal and educational rights.<br />
3) Agent Goldilocks of the Forest Child Protective Services Agency isn't a villain, after all. In fact, she proved quite helpful to the Bears.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gCFMwHTNkhs/VRbENf090qI/AAAAAAAAA2A/ihO7gQW70bc/s1600/champion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gCFMwHTNkhs/VRbENf090qI/AAAAAAAAA2A/ihO7gQW70bc/s1600/champion.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>It is the job of every Mama and Papa Bear to champion their childrens' cause.<br /><br />Your turn: Tell us about a time you stood up for your child, whether it was with a school situation, or another circumstance.<br /></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The Wild Things' story goes on, but the drama in this chapter has come to a close, for now.<br />Until next time, we hope that you, too, will live happily ever after.<br /><br />The End.<br /><br />From Mary's Penhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01407949771194206134noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443593996346672193.post-6143269502780283482015-03-17T06:39:00.000-07:002015-03-17T06:39:52.898-07:00The Case of Home vs School<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--tHmdsLYDBw/VQgs0X4GLnI/AAAAAAAAA0c/iodFbBfZqYo/s1600/MomsTaxiService-no-text.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--tHmdsLYDBw/VQgs0X4GLnI/AAAAAAAAA0c/iodFbBfZqYo/s1600/MomsTaxiService-no-text.png" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>It's not helicopter parenting. It's "raising" teens.<br />When I'm driving her to school and she's 20, talk to me about "helicopter" parenting.<br /></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span data-reactid=".3e.1:3:1:$comment1555696281386462_1555701011385989:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.$end:0:$0:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;">The reason I've been quiet here has been, I've had a lot going on with the Wild Things. Babygirl is doing great in college but isn't super-motivated to get her driving license. I'm playing Mom taxi, which, I know, is "enabling" a bit, but I'm ok with that for the time being. We have some great conversations in the car. </span><br data-reactid=".3e.1:3:1:$comment1555696281386462_1555701011385989:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.$end:0:$1:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;" /><br /><span data-reactid=".3e.1:3:1:$comment1555696281386462_1555701011385989:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.$end:0:$4:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;">Beyond that, she's a high school senior going to college. She's right on that cusp of adulthood, when so many people seem to advice shoving them out of the nest... but she's still my Babygirl, and while she's quite mature in some aspects, she's not fully grown. Watch an eagle teaching its young to fly sometime. They don't just shove them out of the nest- they take them on test flights a few times, before dropping them and forcing the eaglet to use its wings. </span><br data-reactid=".3e.1:3:1:$comment1555696281386462_1555701011385989:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.$end:0:$5:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;" /><br data-reactid=".3e.1:3:1:$comment1555696281386462_1555701011385989:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.$end:0:$7:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;" /><span data-reactid=".3e.1:3:1:$comment1555696281386462_1555701011385989:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.$end:0:$8:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;">Thing1, as you may know, has had an oppositional relationship with the administration of our school district nearly from day one. It's a long story, one that I will likely blog about at some point, but this week it came to a head. The school has given him a choice: Return to school after 3 months out (due to anxiety issues) and fail the 9th grade, with the threat of a PINS report, (persons in need of supervision- basically parole for juveniles), or homeschooling. </span><br data-reactid=".3e.1:3:1:$comment1555696281386462_1555701011385989:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.$end:0:$9:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;" /><span data-reactid=".3e.1:3:1:$comment1555696281386462_1555701011385989:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.$end:0:$12:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;">We're going with option 2, since I don't think it's going to help his anxiety or his education to be labeled and treated like a disciplinary problem at this point. So yeah. </span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qKMOLA-ySX4/VQgtiv4BgfI/AAAAAAAAA0k/QW4NyUnkyPM/s1600/jail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qKMOLA-ySX4/VQgtiv4BgfI/AAAAAAAAA0k/QW4NyUnkyPM/s1600/jail.jpg" height="250" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>It's time we busted out. </i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br data-reactid=".3e.1:3:1:$comment1555696281386462_1555701011385989:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.$end:0:$15:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;" />
<span data-reactid=".3e.1:3:1:$comment1555696281386462_1555701011385989:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.$end:0:$16:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;">This is huge guys. There's more to it, of course, than I'm sharing. I have to balance the storytelling instinct that all writers, bloggers included, are driven by, with respect for my son's privacy. He knows that I blog about these things, and he understands that I share out of compassion for the other parents I've met through our travels, who are facing similar challenges. Many feel overwhelmed, like David facing the Goliath of public educational law. </span><br data-reactid=".3e.1:3:1:$comment1555696281386462_1555701011385989:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.$end:0:$17:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;" /><br data-reactid=".3e.1:3:1:$comment1555696281386462_1555701011385989:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.$end:0:$19:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;" /><span data-reactid=".3e.1:3:1:$comment1555696281386462_1555701011385989:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.$end:0:$20:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;">This David is retiring from the field. We're turning back the clock, and going back into homeschooling. It was HARD the first time around. It was challenging and overwhelming. I wasn't sure either of us would survive it. But...</span><br data-reactid=".3e.1:3:1:$comment1555696281386462_1555701011385989:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.$end:0:$21:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;" /><br data-reactid=".3e.1:3:1:$comment1555696281386462_1555701011385989:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.$end:0:$23:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;" /><span data-reactid=".3e.1:3:1:$comment1555696281386462_1555701011385989:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.$end:0:$24:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;">For a few short years, I saw a change in my son. I got back the outgoing, motivated, happy kid he was before his entry to public school. He got into woodworking and refinished several beautiful pieces of furniture. He started playing guitar. He discovered Minecraft and built worlds out of nothing, along the way learning redstone, a complicated version of electricity that allows players to create amazing machines, lighting systems, and other mysteries within the game. His intelligence and spark came out and I saw him GLOW. I want to see him smile again. I want to hear the excitement in his voice when he discovers something in science, or solves a complicated math problem. </span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vQn5gKEKlrQ/VQgt4zOYprI/AAAAAAAAA0s/trbvgMBwF9M/s1600/Hope%2Bkitty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vQn5gKEKlrQ/VQgt4zOYprI/AAAAAAAAA0s/trbvgMBwF9M/s1600/Hope%2Bkitty.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I want to see him smile again. </i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br data-reactid=".3e.1:3:1:$comment1555696281386462_1555701011385989:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.$end:0:$27:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;" /><span data-reactid=".3e.1:3:1:$comment1555696281386462_1555701011385989:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.$end:0:$28:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;">This isn't just homeschooling guys. This is a journey, a quest. I'm going to get my son back. </span><br data-reactid=".3e.1:3:1:$comment1555696281386462_1555701011385989:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.$end:0:$29:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;" /><br data-reactid=".3e.1:3:1:$comment1555696281386462_1555701011385989:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.$end:0:$31:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;" /><span data-reactid=".3e.1:3:1:$comment1555696281386462_1555701011385989:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.$end:0:$32:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;">Wish us luck. </span><br data-reactid=".3e.1:3:1:$comment1555696281386462_1555701011385989:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.$end:0:$33:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;" /><span data-reactid=".3e.1:3:1:$comment1555696281386462_1555701011385989:0.0.$right.0.$left.0.0.1.$comment-body.0.$end:0:$34:0" style="background-color: #f6f7f8; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.0799999237061px;"><span class="emoticon emoticon_heart" style="background-image: url(https://fbstatic-a.akamaihd.net/rsrc.php/v2/y8/r/n15SdJAJaKB.png); background-position: 0px -7897px; background-repeat: no-repeat; background-size: auto; display: inline-block; height: 16px; vertical-align: top; width: 16px;" title="<3"></span></span>From Mary's Penhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01407949771194206134noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443593996346672193.post-7073870322358935712015-02-14T08:56:00.002-08:002015-02-14T08:56:48.365-08:00Post Traumatic Special Cupcake Syndrome <div class="_209g _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="dn4sk-0-0" data-reactid=".a6.1:2.0.$right.0.0.0.0.1.0.0.1.0.$dn4sk" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; direction: ltr; line-height: 16px; position: relative; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="dn4sk-0-0" data-reactid=".a6.1:2.0.$right.0.0.0.0.1.0.0.1.0.$dn4sk.0:$dn4sk-0-0"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I didn't plan on making this a blog post. In fact, it was meant to be just a comment on my Facebook page, but I am seriously ticked off, and I need to tell you why. </span></span></div>
<div class="_209g _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="dn4sk-0-0" data-reactid=".a6.1:2.0.$right.0.0.0.0.1.0.0.1.0.$dn4sk" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; direction: ltr; line-height: 16px; position: relative; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="dn4sk-0-0" data-reactid=".a6.1:2.0.$right.0.0.0.0.1.0.0.1.0.$dn4sk.0:$dn4sk-0-0"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="_209g _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="dn4sk-0-0" data-reactid=".a6.1:2.0.$right.0.0.0.0.1.0.0.1.0.$dn4sk" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; direction: ltr; line-height: 16px; position: relative; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="dn4sk-0-0" data-reactid=".a6.1:2.0.$right.0.0.0.0.1.0.0.1.0.$dn4sk.0:$dn4sk-0-0"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This morning, I read a tweet from a Youtuber who was chided for not putting "trigger warnings" on his content. Trigger warnings are comments or warnings applied to various media online, to make survivors of abuse or trauma aware that the posting may contain content which can "trigger" symptoms of their mental illness, like flashbacks, nightmares, or anxiety attacks. </span></span></div>
<div class="_209g _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="dn4sk-0-0" data-reactid=".a6.1:2.0.$right.0.0.0.0.1.0.0.1.0.$dn4sk" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; direction: ltr; line-height: 16px; position: relative; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="dn4sk-0-0" data-reactid=".a6.1:2.0.$right.0.0.0.0.1.0.0.1.0.$dn4sk.0:$dn4sk-0-0"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eVymfO2mS4Y/VN9xNUiOdGI/AAAAAAAAAxU/LGLFM7K9BBM/s1600/Trigger_lock_on_a_revolver_-_close_up_of_warning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eVymfO2mS4Y/VN9xNUiOdGI/AAAAAAAAAxU/LGLFM7K9BBM/s1600/Trigger_lock_on_a_revolver_-_close_up_of_warning.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Trigger warnings have their place. They protect trauma survivors from further pain. </span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="_209g _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="dn4sk-0-0" data-reactid=".a6.1:2.0.$right.0.0.0.0.1.0.0.1.0.$dn4sk" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; direction: ltr; line-height: 16px; position: relative; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="dn4sk-0-0" data-reactid=".a6.1:2.0.$right.0.0.0.0.1.0.0.1.0.$dn4sk.0:$dn4sk-0-0"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="_209g _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="dn4sk-0-0" data-reactid=".a6.1:2.0.$right.0.0.0.0.1.0.0.1.0.$dn4sk" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; direction: ltr; line-height: 16px; position: relative; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="dn4sk-0-0" data-reactid=".a6.1:2.0.$right.0.0.0.0.1.0.0.1.0.$dn4sk.0:$dn4sk-0-0"><span style="font-family: inherit;">To give my response to this a little bit of background:
I have lived with PTSD for 20+ years. I was diagnosed in 1989. I was a stupid, scared teenager with no concept of mental illness except that it made one "crazy" to have one. I did not make a good connection with the psychiatrist who made the diagnosis, and soon dropped out of therapy. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I've essentially been on my own with this. When I was diagnosed, there were no internet communities dedicated to abuse and trauma survivors. There were no soldiers' groups spreading PSAs for combat veterans. There were few therapists who were familiar enough with the condition to provide effective treatment beyond medications to mask the symptoms. It wasn't until I was an adult that I was able to find the counseling and help I needed to cope with the symptoms.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">That is not what makes me angry. It's been incredible to see an entire community spring up in support of those who live with the effects of past trauma. It's been healing to be able to reach out to others and tell them there IS hope. You can heal. You can find peace, and while PTSD isn't truly "curable" in most cases, the symptoms can be managed with good support and self-care routines. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">What makes me angry is the request for trigger warnings on content that is put out there for entertainment. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Now, let me clarify- Trigger warnings have their place. They are common in communities that are designed as a support network. Those online spaces are, by definition, safe zones. They are where survivors go to find the connection and healing they need. Trigger warnings on shared content that might be problematic for the members of the group are just a common-sense courtesy that make these groups what they are- bubbles of safety.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The internet, as a whole, is NOT a "safe zone". it is the wilderness. You enter at your own risk. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WtQe8UVWvcs/VN91lrb1FwI/AAAAAAAAAx4/dAvPB2_muSk/s1600/Cramer_Lakes_basin_from_Alpine_Lake_trail_in_Sawtooth_Wilderness.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WtQe8UVWvcs/VN91lrb1FwI/AAAAAAAAAx4/dAvPB2_muSk/s1600/Cramer_Lakes_basin_from_Alpine_Lake_trail_in_Sawtooth_Wilderness.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>It's beautiful, and there are hazards. Preparation and common sense are necessary. </i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Expecting any content provider or entertainer, to provide trigger warnings is unreasonable and dangerous- and here's why- it's GIVING UP YOUR CONTROL. You are giving someone else the job of keeping you safe. This is not healthy or productive. It's the first step on a slippery slope and in certain circumstances, can lead you into abusive, unhealthy relationships. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">As a survivor, control is a critical thing. You lost control to the traumatic event. In healing, there often arises a need to control EVERYTHING. This might come out in OCD symptoms. It might come out in needing routine or a "safety" item or object. It comes out in a myriad of ways, some healthy and some not. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The attempt to control others, by demanding trigger warnings, is an unhealthy expression of this need, and when people respond by giving in to the demand, they are essentially feeding the insidious Special Cupcake Syndrome that impedes healing. </span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ditx0WH-YUk/VN9xZqKDSOI/AAAAAAAAAxc/N3RywY6CfrA/s1600/A_spectrum_of_cupcake_bites.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ditx0WH-YUk/VN9xZqKDSOI/AAAAAAAAAxc/N3RywY6CfrA/s1600/A_spectrum_of_cupcake_bites.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">We are all Special Cupcakes, but not even cupcakes deserve the right to control others to get our needs met.</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span data-offset-key="295p5-0-0" data-reactid=".a6.1:2.0.$right.0.0.0.0.1.0.0.1.0.$295p5.0:$295p5-0-0">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: center;">Special Cupcake Syndrome is when someone who has a mental illness, or who does not have a mental illness but desires attention and control, who may or may not be an abuse or trauma survivor, demands special treatment, or acts out in ways to get attention for themselves, or attempts to control or manipulate others, using their real or perceived condition as an excuse for their behavior.</span><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: center;"> </span></div>
</span></span></div>
<div class="_209g _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="295p5-0-0" data-reactid=".a6.1:2.0.$right.0.0.0.0.1.0.0.1.0.$295p5" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; direction: ltr; line-height: 16px; position: relative; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="295p5-0-0" data-reactid=".a6.1:2.0.$right.0.0.0.0.1.0.0.1.0.$295p5.0:$295p5-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="_209g _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="295p5-0-0" data-reactid=".a6.1:2.0.$right.0.0.0.0.1.0.0.1.0.$295p5" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; direction: ltr; line-height: 16px; position: relative; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="295p5-0-0" data-reactid=".a6.1:2.0.$right.0.0.0.0.1.0.0.1.0.$295p5.0:$295p5-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Let us be VERY clear- PTSD and related illnesses are NOT THE SAME THING as Special Cupcake Syndrome. Sometimes, the lines can become very blurred between the two, because survivors NEED attention. They need validation. They need support and healing and understanding and compassion from the people around them. These are natural and valid needs for every human being. None of those needs mean that they are displaying SCS, and not all expressions of these needs are SCS related. NEVER FEEL GUILTY OR ASHAMED TO EXPRESS YOUR NEEDS. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; font-family: inherit; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;">SCS is not an expression of a need. It is an unreasonable demand to have that need met by someone else, in a way that seeks to control them, and it's most commonly found in online interactions. (Though, it does happen in real-life encounters as well.) With SCS, getting the need met is less the goal than controlling the other person. Getting your needs met in ways that do not manipulate, abuse, or attempt to control others is the only healthy road to healing. </span><span style="color: #141823; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;">What survivors both need and fear is to be KNOWN. We need to be seen. We need to be loved as individuals, by people who know us well enough to love us. We can not get that from people who do not know us well, like celebrities, web page administrators, or other "</span></span><span style="color: #141823;"><span style="line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;">anonymous</span></span><span style="color: #141823; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;">" internet connections. They have no connection with us, or real investment in our well-being. Demanding that they meet our needs is not only unreasonable, it's unrealistic. It is holding another person responsible for our feelings and reactions- which, in turn, gives them <i>control over our feelings and reactions. </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">What SCS behavior gets us is attention for our condition. Attention can be a balm, a soothing salve, but if it is for the wrong thing, or expressed in the wrong ways, it's actually doing more harm than good. </span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QA2COLjEwBQ/VN9yxIHI-lI/AAAAAAAAAxs/Y81Op-oTioQ/s1600/Band-Aid_close-up.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QA2COLjEwBQ/VN9yxIHI-lI/AAAAAAAAAxs/Y81Op-oTioQ/s1600/Band-Aid_close-up.jpg" height="162" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Bandaids don't heal everything. Sometimes stitches are required to close a wound. </span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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If you have a puncture wound, doctors will tell you NOT to use salve or try to heal the surface of the wound too quickly- doing so can cause a really nasty infection, and the wound will have to be re-opened to drain it. Puncture wounds must be healed from the inside out. So it is with trauma. Until we allow ourselves to deal with the initial trauma, and have help adjusting our perspectives from a trusted therapist, we can not heal. </span></span></div>
<div class="_209g _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="295p5-0-0" data-reactid=".a6.1:2.0.$right.0.0.0.0.1.0.0.1.0.$295p5" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; direction: ltr; line-height: 16px; position: relative; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="295p5-0-0" data-reactid=".a6.1:2.0.$right.0.0.0.0.1.0.0.1.0.$295p5.0:$295p5-0-0"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="_209g _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="295p5-0-0" data-reactid=".a6.1:2.0.$right.0.0.0.0.1.0.0.1.0.$295p5" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; direction: ltr; line-height: 16px; position: relative; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="295p5-0-0" data-reactid=".a6.1:2.0.$right.0.0.0.0.1.0.0.1.0.$295p5.0:$295p5-0-0"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Healing is the only path to peace. </span></span></div>
<div class="_209g _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="295p5-0-0" data-reactid=".a6.1:2.0.$right.0.0.0.0.1.0.0.1.0.$295p5" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; direction: ltr; line-height: 16px; position: relative; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="295p5-0-0" data-reactid=".a6.1:2.0.$right.0.0.0.0.1.0.0.1.0.$295p5.0:$295p5-0-0"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="_209g _2vxa" data-block="true" data-offset-key="295p5-0-0" data-reactid=".a6.1:2.0.$right.0.0.0.0.1.0.0.1.0.$295p5" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; direction: ltr; line-height: 16px; position: relative; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<span data-offset-key="295p5-0-0" data-reactid=".a6.1:2.0.$right.0.0.0.0.1.0.0.1.0.$295p5.0:$295p5-0-0"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If you suffer from anxiety, depression, flashbacks, nightmares, mood swings, or other symptoms of trauma, please seek out the help you need. There are many qualified counselors who can guide you through the healing process. There are groups and communities where you can begin to find connections and build a network of support. There are probably people in your real-life circles, who care enough about you to become part of your healing process. If there are not, you may need professional support and help to find those people. You need to learn about healthy personal boundaries and healthy ways to get your needs met in the context of loving relationships with healthy people.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ajilq6egklA/VN9x66FRVoI/AAAAAAAAAxk/WpmF6zhqaok/s1600/self-care-survival.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ajilq6egklA/VN9x66FRVoI/AAAAAAAAAxk/WpmF6zhqaok/s1600/self-care-survival.jpg" height="320" width="316" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Self care is NOT an expression of SCS. It's a good and healthy expression of supported yet self-sufficient autonomy.</span></i></td></tr>
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It takes time. It takes trust in others. It's not easy. It takes support. You can do it. The trauma left you wounded, but you're still here. You are not a victim. You are a survivor. Own it. Where there is life, there is hope. Make the most of it.
With love from the trenches,
Mary
PTSD Resources:
<a href="http://www.ptsd.va.gov/" target="_blank">For Veterans</a> (Thank you for your service!)</span></span></div>
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<a href="http://www.nimh.nih.gov/health/topics/post-traumatic-stress-disorder-ptsd/index.shtml" target="_blank">General Information</a> </div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="http://www.ptsdalliance.org/resources.html" target="_blank">Resources and other help</a></div>
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From Mary's Penhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01407949771194206134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443593996346672193.post-77347978803507033722015-01-24T12:24:00.000-08:002015-01-24T12:24:54.985-08:00Life is Wild. Try to Keep UpSo, this morning I got into a minor commenting skirmish. Shots were fired, but it was more along the lines of children exchanging taunts on the playground than snipers slipping through the brush. A minor scuffle, with both parties leaving the field intact, the only injuries being to pride and tempers, and even those were slight. Embedded in the snarkfest (which I fully admit to engaging in- not trying to sling the blame elsewhere here!), was a jab at my blog's name.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OGAy76EFDkY/VMP9CZBpZBI/AAAAAAAAAwk/sLFvg54RGu0/s1600/tumblr_mv2uwddiLc1sbf547o2_500.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-OGAy76EFDkY/VMP9CZBpZBI/AAAAAAAAAwk/sLFvg54RGu0/s1600/tumblr_mv2uwddiLc1sbf547o2_500.gif" height="163" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Hmm... doesn't seem to capture my better side, does it?</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
"Life with Teens & Other Wild Things" apparently implies that my children are "wild". Out of control. Undisciplined. Disrespectful. Bad Kids. Therefore, by default, I must be a prime example of that internet pariah; a Bad Parent. I should totally think about changing my blog's name, so people don't get the impression that my kids are wild. Wouldn't want anyone thinking I'm a Bad Parent, now would I?<br />
<br />
Well, the truth is, I am a Bad Parent. My kids are Wild. And you know what? I wouldn't change it, even if I could.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bm3K5waI7pU/VMP9KVUC-OI/AAAAAAAAAws/nHH-tZTsKDM/s1600/inside-all-of-us-is-a-wild-thing-quote-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bm3K5waI7pU/VMP9KVUC-OI/AAAAAAAAAws/nHH-tZTsKDM/s1600/inside-all-of-us-is-a-wild-thing-quote-1.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
My kids are two of the most empathetic, kindest hearted people I've ever met. Despite being mercilessly harassed for several years by her own bullies, the one and only time Babygirl fought another kid in school was when she belted a boy because he punched her friend, Sarah, in the arm. Babygirl returned the favor, and bopped him a good one. Normally, I discourage fighting. I've told my kids that the <i>only</i> acceptable time to hit someone is if they hit you first. No exceptions. Except... Sarah has autism. She's high enough functioning that she's in regular classes, but limited in her ability to understand and take part in social interactions. So yeah.<br />
<br />
Thing1 isn't always as quick as his sister to see the softer side of things, but go ahead and attack someone's religious, political, or personal beliefs in front of him. Not necessarily beliefs he agrees with, or holds himself, mind you, but anyone's right to believe and worship as they see fit. I dare you. This dog <i>will</i> fight if you rattle his cage, and he will defend your right to disagree with him as strongly as he'll defend his own opinions.<br />
<br />
Are my kids perfect? HA!<br />
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!<br />
When I stop laughing... I'll have to say... no. But then, how could they be? They sprang forth from imperfect parents, after all. (And, I will add that any parent who believes their little princess-angel-cupcakes-sparkle-glitter-cannons are perfect is either delusional or lying through their professionally-whitened, impossibly-straight teeth.)<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-riWrJPn-hOY/VMP9vz6skeI/AAAAAAAAAw0/CgQ0duMNZhY/s1600/DomenichinounicornPalFarnese.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-riWrJPn-hOY/VMP9vz6skeI/AAAAAAAAAw0/CgQ0duMNZhY/s1600/DomenichinounicornPalFarnese.jpg" height="262" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Oh, you have a perfect kid?<br />Let me introduce you to my unicorn. Watch out. He farts. </i></td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
I have good kids. Imperfect kids. Yes, they are wild. And that's ok with me, because their wild sides come out in good ways.<br />
<br />
My parenting style has been haphazard at best. I've read so many books on parenting I could start a library... and I have a hash-mixture of different philosophies, advice, styles, and techniques. A few of them worked for us. A few were complete disasters. None were a perfect fit, but from the patchwork, I've pieced together a garment that at least covers the worst of our indecencies. Together, my kids and I have survived thus far. Not just survived. We've thrived.<br />
<br />
We've been strong enough to face diagnoses of depression and anxiety. Rebuilding after a tornado that dropped a tree on our home and caused extensive destruction to our property. An expulsion from a school that was not prepared to deal with unique needs associated with the diagnoses. Homeschooling. The breakdown of a marriage and the loss associated with divorce. The loss of close friends and family members through death. Losses when friends moved away. A return to public school. Graduation from high school. The beginning of college.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-syAXB_iSe-s/VMP9-Dbu-5I/AAAAAAAAAw8/2eeV1QDJ6Ik/s1600/Walt_disney_star.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-syAXB_iSe-s/VMP9-Dbu-5I/AAAAAAAAAw8/2eeV1QDJ6Ik/s1600/Walt_disney_star.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>"All the adversity I've had in my life, all my troubles and obstacles, have strengthened me... You may not realize it when it happens, but a kick in the teeth may be the best thing in the world for you."<br />~Walt Disney</i></td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
<br />
We've been on this Wild Ride together, and as long as we cling tight to one another, we've made it through everything life has thrown at us. Together, we ARE Wild Things, and I am proud to carry that title, along with all the scars that go along with it.<br />
<br />
I wouldn't change a thing about this Life with Teens, and other Wild Things. Our story might not be white picket fences and June Cleaver aprons, but nobody watches those outdated, white-washed shows anymore, anyway. Long live the Wild Things. We're here to stay.<br />
<br />
And, if you'd like to check out another Wild Parent, swing on over to KzooDad's blog, where he shares his adventures with his own Wild Things, and I occasionally trade snipes with other commenters. :)<br />
http://www.kzoodad.com/From Mary's Penhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01407949771194206134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443593996346672193.post-1034428054895731532015-01-12T14:03:00.000-08:002015-01-12T14:03:28.049-08:00Perspectives (Reprinted from Life, Dreams & a Turtle)<br />
This blog post first appeared on my now-defunct blog, Life, Dreams, & a Turtle. Kame (pronounced kah-may), is my Eastern box turtle, and he was a regularly featured part of my old blog.<br />
<br />
Today, I read "<a href="http://www.scarymommy.com/his-name-was-tom/" target="_blank">His Name Was Tom</a>", on Scary Mommy. It reminded me of this old post, and made me wish I'd gotten my "Tom"s name.<br /><br /><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Kame's favorite time of the day is meal time. </i></td></tr>
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<br />
Once upon a time, Kame was homeless... By our standards. He lived wild, in the freedom that comes of having all of creation for a home. When I think of him... and all the others who live in the often harsh conditions of nature, I am filled with a mix of pity and envy. Freedom has dangers, but it is glorious. I live captive to all I own, and to my family and my marriage. I do not know, if I had a real choice, if my kids weren't so dependent on me at this vulnerable age, if I would choose freedom, or remain in captivity.<br />
<br />
Last night, I took my kids to the roller rink. It was closed, even though the website had clearly stated hours. Turns out a private party had taken over the place for the evening. I drove away grumbling. I had four kids in the car and had planned on leaving them there while I went shopping for a few glorious child-free hours.<br />
<br />
A mother is nothing without a back-up plan, so I had one of the teenagers with a smart-phone check movie times, and detoured to the theater instead. The change meant taking four kids with me to the grocery store (we had over an hour before the movie started), but I was able to drop them off and run the groceries home while they took in the show. I'd get my kid-free time after all.<br />
<br />
Heading into the theater, I was approached by an older man. His beard was trimmed and his clothes clean, but an odor hung around him, stale and slightly sour. He approached, holding out his hands as if to prove himself unarmed, mumbling. When he drew closer, I could understand.<br />
<br />
"Help a Vietnam vet get a chicken dinner, ma'am? I's hungry. Ain't ate for 2 days. I can get a chicken dinner over there, right behind ya, ma'am. Chicken dinner sure sounds good. I'm hungry, ma'am."<br />
<br />
My first response... I am ashamed to admit... was fear. I didn't know what was wrong with him, what he would do. I was herding four kids into the theater, and my first thought was to defend them.<br />
<br />
"Just a minute, hon, I've got to take my kids in to the movie," I replied, trying to control the shiver in my voice.<br />
<br />
I hurried the kids inside, and lingered long enough to be sure they'd gone in to their show. I went back outside reluctantly, uncertain if he'd still be there, but he was, hopeful but keeping a respectful distance.<br />
<br />
He saw me heading for my car, and called "Have a good evenin', ma'am," giving me a friendly wave.<br />
<br />
I'm sure he's had many people simply hop in their car and drive away, ignoring his existence. For a brief moment, I considered it, but there was something in that friendly, sad little wave, that compelled me. I know what rejection feels like and I couldn't bear to inflict it upon someone who has grown so used to it he accepts it as his due.<br />
<br />
"Wait a minute," I said, as if I'd planned all along to help him.<br />
<br />
He came hesitantly but with a sort of repressed, shamed eagerness, still keeping his distance. He's learned this dance well. Never get too close, don't crowd people. It makes them uncomfortable. Always be ready to run. I remember, too well, living by those rules and my heart hurt for him.<br />
<br />
I gave him the little cash I had, and a Twix bar I'd bought in a moment of weakness. Dieting has never been easy for me, and the allure of chocolate, caramel and cookies had proven too much for my weak will. When I'd stood in line at the grocery store, that Twix bar had whispered my name, alluring, calling, pulling me in like a lover to a secret tryst. Now, I handed it over without a second thought, at once ashamed that I'd been so greedy and thankful that I had something to share.<br />
<br />
"Oh!" he exclaimed with a smile. "I like them! They're chocolatey. Thank you, ma'am."<br />
<br />
And with that, he was gone.<br />
<br />
I have no grand illusions that my clumsy kindness last night will make a lasting change in that man's life. I'm certain that I'm simply one more in a long line of soft hearted saps who've handed over a few dollars and supplied him with another evening's beer. I caught the sharp scent of alcohol when he stood close, and I know the statistics of alcoholism among the homeless as well as anyone. I'd like to hope he got that chicken dinner, but I have my doubts.<br />
<br />
He did mention that his check would come "tomorrow" and he'd be able to buy food again. His running ramble seemed designed to reassure, to communicate that he's not <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> bad off.<br />
<br />
"Stayin' at the motel, here," he assured me. "Check'll come tomorrow, my food stamps. Then I can eat. Money ran out though, and I ain't ate in two days. Chicken dinner sure sounds good."<br />
<br />
Suddenly, my efforts at dieting seem... almost ridiculous. Want to be thin? Try not eating for two days. For over a month, I've been complaining bitterly over a $900 repair bill for my car. <span style="font-style: italic;">I have a car</span>. And my family had the $900 to pay the bill. It was a bitter blow, but we managed.<br />
<br />
On the way to the theater, I was mentally grumbling over the high-spirited hijinx of my kids and their friends. The day before yesterday, another friend's little niece was diagnosed with Leukemia. (And if you are moved to pray for this little angel, her name is Brianna.)<br />
<br />
I'm not trying to pretend that we're lavish in our lifestyle, or that by enjoying the gifts God has graced us with- good mental and physical health, the ability to work and support ourselves, and our healthy children, that I am somehow sinning, or adding to the burden of my brother who asked for a few dollars to buy himself a chicken dinner.<br />
<br />
The money I gave him was the last of my cash for the week, and I will have to make due with a quarter tank of gas until my next check comes. Somehow, my sacrifices seem miniscule, in the bigger picture. A Twix bar and a few dollars... they seemed so important to me, until I met him... And now, I will never forget a ragged old man whose eyes lit up, who really <span style="font-style: italic;">appreciated</span> a candy bar and a few dollars to buy a chicken dinner... More than I did, until I gave them away.<br />
<br />
"<span style="font-style: italic;">Oh, I like them! They're chocolatey!"</span><br />
<br />
May you enjoy it in peace, my friend. You'll be in my prayers.<br />
<br />
Rejoicing in the day,<br />
-Mary<br />
<br />
~*~*~<br />
<br />
<span class="body" style="font-style: italic;">There is a lot that happens around the world we cannot control. We cannot stop earthquakes, we cannot prevent droughts, and we cannot prevent all conflict, but when we know where the hungry, the homeless and the sick exist, then we can help.</span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br />
<span class="bodybold"><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/j/janschakow340132.html">Jan Schakowsky</a></span><br />
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<span class="versiontext"></span>"<span style="font-style: italic;">The King will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.</span>'<span class="versiontext"><br />-Matthew 25:40<br /><a href="http://niv.scripturetext.com/matthew/25.htm">New International Version</a> <a href="http://biblica.com/">(©1984)</a></span><br />
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<span class="crossverse"></span>"<span style="font-style: italic;">Let's make a small room on the roof and put in it a bed and a table, a chair and a lamp for him. Then he can stay there whenever he comes to us."</span><br />
<span class="crossverse"><a href="http://bible.cc/2_kings/4-10.htm">2 Kings 4:10</a></span><br />
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<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-x-LM4TuA5KE/VKLH39Icv5I/AAAAAAAAAvQ/BJrA42Bz7Ks/s1600/Theresa%2Bfishing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-x-LM4TuA5KE/VKLH39Icv5I/AAAAAAAAAvQ/BJrA42Bz7Ks/s1600/Theresa%2Bfishing.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Theresa never missed a moment of life. She was always<br />up for new adventures. She was my hero. </i></td></tr>
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<br />
There were also flashes of sun from between the clouds. I restarted college this fall. Thing1 finished middle school successfully in June and started high school in September. Babygirl entered a program that will let her graduate from high school early and she's looking forward to starting college in January 2015.<br />
<br />
I'm not a big fan of resolutions, because they seem like a flash in the pan, something you declare with a lot of bravado in January, and fizzle out by March.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
This year, however, I'm making one for myself: This year, I resolve to be more positive. To appreciate the incredible blessings we enjoy and to stay focused on the goals for the future. Since my marriage fell apart, I've been determined not to become "that person"; the woman who obsesses over her ex and his new life and hates him, using him as a scapegoat for everything bad that happens to her post-divorce.<br />
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<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FwMvV0XI2ys/VKLG1mzBTXI/AAAAAAAAAvE/Zi5Hx4HAY4Y/s1600/scapegoat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FwMvV0XI2ys/VKLG1mzBTXI/AAAAAAAAAvE/Zi5Hx4HAY4Y/s1600/scapegoat.jpg" height="203" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>In ancient times, a goat was symbolically burdened with the sins of the people,<br />and driven off into the wilderness, to cleanse the tribe of its guilt. </i></td></tr>
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<br />
I don't want to carry this anger anymore. I'm tired of being angry. Tired of his name bringing a flare of pain and disgust. I am angry, and have every right to be, about the way he handled our ending. His deception made the parting much more painful than it needed to be. His behavior since leaving hasn't helped. He's hurt my kids, and for a Mama Bear, that can be an unforgivable sin.<br /><br />There comes a time, though, when you have to let go of old disappointments. Holding a grudge is like holding a hot coal and expecting it to burn the other person... you're only hurting yourself. What harm does my anger do him? None, of course. He's off living his life. Staying angry is <i>only letting him still have a say in my feelings</i>, whether he even knows it or not. I'm SO ready to cut those strings. <span style="text-align: center;">My ex is no saint, but I've moved on and my life is no longer bound to his choices. It's time to embrace freedom, and like Elsa, "let it go". </span><br />
<br />
Do you have any resolutions for 2015?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EGuAKYIKTPk/VKLFKgUNTpI/AAAAAAAAAuk/8IoM9x0_KD4/s1600/sunrise.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EGuAKYIKTPk/VKLFKgUNTpI/AAAAAAAAAuk/8IoM9x0_KD4/s1600/sunrise.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I am so ready to see what a new year will bring. </i></td></tr>
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From Mary's Penhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01407949771194206134noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3443593996346672193.post-91095498051670580972014-12-22T06:24:00.000-08:002014-12-22T06:24:04.021-08:00Five Reasons I Don't Want My Son to have SexThere are so many <a href="http://www.scarymommy.com/10-reasons-i-dont-want-my-daughters-having-sex/" target="_blank">blogs</a> out there about why we don't want our daughters having sex. Many of the lists contain similar themes, many of which also apply to our sons: Because they're not ready. Because there are emotional connections that come with physical intimacy, that can really screw you up later. Because disease. And babies. And because they're <i>not ready.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6yyw5-vlj0o/VIPAdlM45KI/AAAAAAAAAqE/y72hpKmc-ZU/s1600/556px-STOP_sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6yyw5-vlj0o/VIPAdlM45KI/AAAAAAAAAqE/y72hpKmc-ZU/s1600/556px-STOP_sign.jpg" height="200" width="185" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Can we stop this madness? Please?<br />What's wrong with our teens being allowed to be kids? </i></td></tr>
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We don't have as many conversations about, or with, our boys. And those moms who do <a href="http://givenbreath.com/2013/09/03/fyi-if-youre-a-teenage-girl/" target="_blank">say they don't want their boys having sex</a> too young are often seen as <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/beth-woolsey/dear-mrs-hall-regarding-your-fyi-if-youre-a-teenage-girl_b_3894501.html" target="_blank">women-hating slut shamers</a>, who are trying to raise Mama's boys, forever tied to the apron strings.<br />
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In fact, anyone who calls for balance in this discussion with our teens about having sex is likely to be attacked by one of two sides: Those who believe teens should have lots of wild, crazy sex as soon as possible, with no regrets, because YOLO!, or those who think you shouldn't ever have sex until you're married, preferably in your 40s, with the lights off and as many clothes as possible still on. And don't enjoy it. It's for procreation, not for pleasure, you sick pervert.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OcxZnr2-oS4/VIO_aa6QatI/AAAAAAAAAp8/nYnD7i1hnXQ/s1600/yolo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OcxZnr2-oS4/VIO_aa6QatI/AAAAAAAAAp8/nYnD7i1hnXQ/s1600/yolo.jpg" height="200" width="198" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>You Only Live Once. <br />So... do it right the first time. </i></td></tr>
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What ever happened to middle ground? What ever happened to personal responsibility? What has happened to make our sons believe that they are less of a man if their belts aren't notched by the time they escape the confines of high school? Why do we make teenage sexuality so damn <i>complicated</i>?<br />
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I've been thinking about this since before my son decided that girls don't have cooties. I've been through this stage with Babygirl. My reasons, with both my kids, are pretty much the same. This isn't a gender thing. This isn't about slut shaming, or about <a href="http://www.mommyish.com/2012/08/17/doing-my-best-not-to-raise-rapists-515/" target="_blank">not raising a rapist</a>. This is not about trying to control my kids. This is about empowering them to make good and healthy decisions for their own lives. <br />
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My reasons for not wanting my son (or, for that matter, my daughter) to engage too early in the mattress mamba:<br />
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1) <b>Babies are expensive.</b> Duh. Yes, birth control is cheaper. A LOT cheaper. But. The failure rate for a male condom? 18%. EIGHTEEN PERCENT. That's very close to 1 in 5. Yikes.<br />
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Let's break this down, shall we?<br />
There are somewhere around 400 teens in my son's high school. According to the CDC, about 35% of those kids are having sex at any given time. So, if the math plays out, that's about 140 kids. 18% of 140? Twenty-five. Mathematically, about 4 of those kids will be gay. (<a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/news/volokh-conspiracy/wp/2014/07/15/what-percentage-of-the-u-s-population-is-gay-lesbian-or-bisexual/" target="_blank">3.6% of the population</a> identifies as something other than "straight".)<br />
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Assuming that the rest are boy/girl couples, that's an average of 10.5 girls. Let's round down to 10- that's ten girls per year having babies. That's about right, from my personal knowledge of my kids' friends and what's going on in the school in general.<br />
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I'd rather my son was not one of those ten baby-daddies who find themselves, at fifteen, in sudden need of a job to keep their new offspring in diapers.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3KrNR78w8d0/VIO8vpEu1aI/AAAAAAAAApw/KdsWvEPhlwo/s1600/IMG_3914.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3KrNR78w8d0/VIO8vpEu1aI/AAAAAAAAApw/KdsWvEPhlwo/s1600/IMG_3914.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>He can't even drive a car yet. <br />Can you imagine this kid with a baby?? </i></td></tr>
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2) <b>Romance and relationships.</b> I love my son. I think he's just about the peachiest little dimpled bundle of giggles to ever have graced the world with a goofy grin. He's a great kid. A seriously great kid. I get compliments from other parents about how polite and kind-hearted my kids are. But. He can also be a bit of a douchebag. Hey, he's almost 15. His social skills, along with his brain, are not fully developed. His emotional stability is on-par with a lemur on crack.<br />
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So, entering into a relationship that includes the <a href="http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/fulfillment-any-age/201303/how-casual-sex-can-affect-our-mental-health" target="_blank">emotional fall out</a> that comes with sex? Not the best thing for my handsome little bundle of hormones. He's still learning to navigate friendships. Romance is far more complicated, and that's an arena he's not ready for. The kid can barely keep a lizard alive. He's so not ready to make a serious emotional investment into a relationship with a girlfriend.<br />
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3) <b>Disease. </b>Ok, so only 35% of kids are having sex. Chances of my teen catching a STD from his first partner might seem slim, but... <a href="http://www.hhs.gov/ash/oah/resources-and-publications/info/parents/just-facts/stds.html" target="_blank">1 in 4 sexually active teens have an STD</a>. Those aren't odds I want him to chance. If that makes me an over protective mom, so be it.<br />
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Incidentally, 1 in 4 girls, and 1 in 6 boys, will be a victim of a sexual predator before they are 18. A whole other conversation, but important for parents to know, so that they can <a href="http://www.themamabeareffect.org/" target="_blank">take steps to protect their children</a>.<br />
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4) <b>Brain development.</b> I won't pretend that I begin to understand the complicated processes that happen behind my kids' skulls. I can't even tell you why they don't pick up after themselves or why they can't retain instructions I've given them for more than 3.4 seconds, but can recite the entire list of their favorite video game stars. And their birthdays.<br />
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The bottom line is that, though I don't understand much about the teenage brain, <a href="http://www.acpeds.org/the-college-speaks/position-statements/parenting-issues/the-teenage-brain-under-construction" target="_blank">the experts at the American College of Pediatricians say</a> that engaging in behaviors like sex before the brain is fully developed can change the way the neural hookups get established, creating addictive behaviors and tricking the brain into needing more stimulation to achieve an appropriate response to the release of dopamine and other "feel good" hormones.<br />
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<i>Seriously. His brain is amazing, but... yeah. Not developed. </i></div>
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5) <b>I want him to have a fulfilling sex life. </b>A recent study showed that there are <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/08/21/more-sexual-partners-unhappy-marriage_n_5698440.html" target="_blank">long-term consequences</a> in marriage associated with behaviors that go along with teenage sex:<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">"<i>Rhoades and Stanley hypothesize in the report that "more experience may increase one’s awareness of alternative partners." In other words, people who have a number of prior relationships may become dissatisfied more easily</i>."</span></blockquote>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Yes, I admit it, this one has a selfish component. I want my son to get married, </i><br />
<i>and, </i><i>hopefully, give me grand-babies someday.</i><br />
<i>He might not. I accept that too, and I'll love him, no matter what his choices are.<br />Bottom line? I want him to be happy. </i></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">Does that mean that having sex as a teenager will mean that my son is more likely to be unhappy in his marriage? Not necessarily. And having partners before marriage isn't always a negative or traumatic experience, for men or women. For some, it's a learning experience. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">But... you never forget your first. Sometimes relationships, especially when teens and their emotions are involved, are complicated. Throw in some typical teenage lack of judgement, and there's a pretty good chance things could go south in a drastic way. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">Why would I want him to risk that, while he's young and impressionable and his hormones are raging like an off-shore storm? Why would I want him to dive head-first into such a momentous first, when the benefits of waiting are so well documented? </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">I don't, of course. And, I say that with a caveat- I recognize that he's not my little toddler any longer, and I can't redirect or distract him, or simply tell him "No!" and put him in time out. This is not a choice I can make for him. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">This will be his decision, and, ultimately, he will make it without my input, and <strike>perhaps</strike> hopefully(!) without my knowledge. All I can do is talk to him, give him the information, assurance of support, and guidance he needs, and hope he makes the right choice for himself when the time comes. </span><br />
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How about you? Have you talked to your son about sex?<br />
<br />From Mary's Penhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01407949771194206134noreply@blogger.com3