Pit bulls and Parolees

Our family dog is a pit bull.  He's great.  I wish more people would consider them.  If you are in the market for a dopey golden retriever, shop around the pit bulls in your local shelter.  You will surely find one that meets your needs.  We are dog people.  My husband and I grew up with many family dogs and when we started our own family we kept the family dog tradition going.  Between the two of us, and together we've had... labs, great danes, shepherd mixes, rotti mixes, springer spaniel, akitas, and now... a pit bull.  His name is Petey and we got him at 5 months old from a family that couldn't keep him anymore because of landlord issues.  I wasn't in the market for a pit bull but our Akita, Kobi, was closing in on 12 and being a somewhat of a snob, had never been a kids' dog.  So, I was in the market for a puppy for my children.  I really didn't have any strong feelings on pit bulls either way.  We were dog people and a dog is a dog is a dog is a dog.  So we have Petey the pit bull, our family dog.

Once you have and are fond of a pit bull, a strange thing happens.  You become aware and at the very least find yourself on the fringe of pit bull advocacy.  You join pit bull FB groups, and acronyms like BSL (breed specific legislation) roll easily off your tounge. You love stories about Hollywood stars adopting pit bulls because it makes you feel very urbane.  Then the bumper stickers come out... "Pit bulls are a girl's best friend", "pit bull  mom", "I love my pit bull", etc.  It's a fast downward slope to crazy dog person land which is just as weird as crazy cat lady land without all the gross litter boxes.

Recently, I read an article (posted on my local pit bull awareness FB page of course) about "dog management".  It was a good article and made a lot of sense.  Basically, the author was tired of hearing "it's all about how they are raised" when it comes to pit bulls.  The author found this concerning because even the best of families with the best of intentions can end up with any kind of dog with problems.  He wants people to work more on good "dog management".  Know your dog's personality, behavior, and issues and manage it well.  It's as simple as don't let your dog run around loose in an unfenced backyard, or don't take your dog-aggressive fido to the dog park.  Simple, easy, straight forward - good dog management. 

So, this morning I was washing dishes after another exhausting morning with Warren.  We are in February and this kid still doesn't get that M-F he goes to school and the mornings are dedicated to getting there.  I send him up to brush his teeth, 10 min later go to check on him, and he's just starting to put toothpaste on the brush.  What has he been doing? Enjoying the bathroom acoustics by singing to himself.  It already took him 25 minutes to put on the same shirt and pants (catholic school uniform) that he wears every day, and then 30 minutes to eat cereal. It's frustrating. As I washed the dishes I pondered my second born and at the same time pondered my dog's garbage eating addiction and realized it all comes down to management.

I need better "child management" with Warren.  Because as dog people like to say, "I'm setting him up for failure".  I need to make lunches at night because my mornings have to be dedicated to managing Warren so that things don't get frustrating.  I have to know his personality, behavior, and issues and manage it well.  James didn't need much management at all, but that was him.  This is a different kid and I can't expect him to fit into my lax parenting style.  I have to up the management on this one. 

This is often true with parents out and about.  When you see a mother with a wild-child, who is obviously trying to manage the monkey show in her shopping cart, you can give an understanding smile and look the other way.  But that mom that's picking out eye-shadow while her kiddos are rearranging the shampoo shelves? Please manage those kids! How the hell do you even have time to apply eye-shadow?  You are the equivalent of the idiot who lives behind me who lets her pit bull out to pee loose in the back yard and closes the door.  One day, when the other idiot with the loose Chihuahuas, is missing one of the five that poop in my yard, I may not be too upset but you will be in hot water and my placid pit bull suddenly looks all the meaner to the general population.

My brother and sister had poor child and dog management respectively one Christmas and I'm still a little mad about it.  At the annual awesome Christmas Eve party at my sister's house, my brother's daughter laid on the floor in front of my sister's nasty cocker spaniel and teased the dog.  I probably heard people tell her five times that night not to bother dog because he doesn't like anyone.  Then, as she laid next to the dog a few feet from me, I myself told her to get away from the dog before she ultimately got nipped in the face.  All this while my brother was in another room away from a child that generally needs a lot of management.  And my sister should have had the dog in his crate.  The nip wasn't terrible, my brother over-reacted, my sister in turn reacted with a dose of indifference that one would have in this type of "I'm sorry your kid got hurt, but why weren't you watching her and why did six people have to tell her to leave the dog alone" type of thing.  So, my brother, in true soap opera form, vowed never to return to my sister's house.  My sister was insulted that after all the work she does every year for everyone, that she would be treated this way, and canceled forth-coming parties.  My kids were sad, because everyone loved Aunt C's fabulous Christmas parties.  All this could have been avoided with a good dose of child and dog management.  And no one is saying you have to be on point 24/7, but then when stuff does happen, be humble.  Also, please note, my brother and sister are good parents trying to raise their respective criminals "right", but this all came down to management.

I have to manage Warren in public, I have been doing this since the beginning of time (5-6 years).  He is "lively" (see my "The Lively Child" post) and it is my responsibility to know that and work with it the best I can.  But in the confines of my own home, I have been lax and it's my own sanity that suffers.  I will often find myself crying to my husband that, "I'm not the mom I want to be." because I spend so much time being angry and frustrated instead of happy and fun.  Where are the sunshine and butterflies?... The craft time and snuggly story times?...The loving kisses and "Have and nice day at school, Angel of my life"? All down the toilette with the back-talking, temper tantrums, procrastinating, whining, and general six-year-old ego-centric selfishness.

So, my new tactic, and maybe this will help others or maybe you all know this already, is going to be better "child management".  I have to try to pre-empt bad situations. I have a huge procrastinator so I have to get my own shit done beforehand so that I can dedicate mornings to teaching him how to stay on task and relieve frustration and stress for both of us. Then I can get him to school in a peaceful manner with kisses full of sunshine and butterflies. The less stressed we both are the more able we will be to enjoy each other. With children, like dogs, it's not always how they are raised but often how they are managed.

Intellect and Eve

This past friday I had a regular OB visit.  I mean that it was regularly scheduled, the visit itself was extraordinary for me.  I have had one vaginal birth and 2 subsequent c-sections.  One of my sections is considered a "special scar" because of the shape of the cut.  I pretty much resigned myself to repeat c-sections.  This, I was pretty much ok with,  I had three healthy children and tried to consentrate on that.  Then my docter said to me, "What about a VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean)?"  "I didn't think I was allowed"  I said back.  She talked about my risks of rupture still being small, that I could labor and if stuff didn't go well we'd just do the section, that we could schedule a section and give me time to go into labor on my own and if I didn't we'd just section.  This was so cool!  I was being given a chance to do something that I had been told wasn't an option... this was so me! So exciting! So everything I live for! So, what did I do? I cried.

I cried, right there on the table.  The docter looked patient, the medical student look alarmed.  I felt... relieved. It was right there and then that I realized how much my birth experiences meant to me. I said to the docter, "I don't feel disabled anymore.  It's like I've been using a wheel-chair and you just told me that I really could walk if I wanted to."

Being human is a very hard thing. You are an animal with either God-given or evolved (or both) intellect. I can feel how important birth is to me, like an animal instinct or an innate urge I can't get rid of - not the amount of births or an urge to keep having births, but the act of giving birth.  But I'm intelligent (how much is debateable) and my intelligence plays ping-pong with my instincts usuing paddles called logic and social norms. After the appointment I called my husband at work and sobbed into the phone, I could feel his alarm and first, and then his deep understanding.  We don't always get each other, but this, he mercifully gets and appreciates.  Second, I called an old highschool friend in Ohio.  When I was pregnant with James she wanted to be a mid-wife and now is one of those annoying, amazing people doing exactly what she said she'd love to do and more.  She get's it too, and has been my phone and FB counselor.

This weekend I did research on VBAC's and baby positioning and natural birthing... all kinds of crazy shit that I had always been jealous of.  In fact a friend of mine had a water birth and hired a professional photog to snap away the memories.  She showed me the beutiful scenes of herself laboring over the side of a tub, her husband rubbing her back.  I looked at the really tear-jerking black and white of her clutching her freshly birthed baby boy to her breast.  I loved it and hated it all at the same time.  It's a weird feeling, really.  I thought of my own photo's of my c-sections... my head in a blue cap with some random nurse holding the baby to my face.  The photos that my husband took when his curiosty and sense of humor got the best of him and he snapped away at my cut open abdomen and uterus while the docter gave him an up close and personal anatomy lesson... my baby on the warmer and me on my side of the curtain hanging with my new best friend, the anesthesiologist, thinking, "Is this really happening right now?" 

I also read about how healing and empowering birth after a c-section can be.  Just reading the words "healing" and "empowering" made tears come out of my eyes.  "What the hell is going on?" I thought.  Then I went and had a tearfull talk with my husband.  I told him that I hold some blame for a family member for my bad birth experience with my second.   That baby was breech and I was scheduled for a version (turning the baby).  But he was born pre-term and low birth weight... both a sympton of mental stress on the mother.  This family member was relentless during the last months of that pregnancy putting pressure on me about everything she didn't like...  a big one was the location of the nursery and if there was lead paint in the room.  She laid guilt trips on my husband and even called my parents about it.  Another family member got so so worked about it that she screamed at me at family function.  I cried and we left early.  It was a miserable pregnancy and c-section, and I blame this person.  And it snowsballs in my brain... if she hadn't gone out of her way to stress me out, I wouldn't have had pre-term labor, and I could have prevented a c-section.  Then little David wouldn't have been a c-section and he wouldn't have been in the NICU for a week and I wouldn't be overly-angry at every small idiotic thing that this person does.  I don't know how much she really is to blame, but I do know that James and David where full term, normal sized babies... and those pregnancies weren't made miserable by her.

So, I realize that I have issues - anger, sadness, blame, jealously - and I want to feel healed and empowered like those VBAC woman.  So, now I'm researching doulas and working on making my perineum (the nice word for taint) strong.  I'm going to indulge my animal urge to birth this kid like a cave woman.  I want to be like our first human mother Eve, birthing her sons outside the Garden of Eden, probablly squatting against a tree.  I want to feel her pain, and her joy, and when it's all over I'll request an apple and take a satisfying bite.

,

Special Purpose

I sometimes have a lot of bits and pieces that I would like to write about but I can't figure out how to pull it all together.  Like, how do you tell your mother-in-law that you don't like the blueberry pie she brought when your husband is just going to say, "Mom, she hated it." and get you in trouble anyway.  But as wonderfull and idiotic as parts of Christmas were, this blog all came together when Sara placed the VHS tape in my hand.

Sara is an old friend.  We had the type of childhood friendship that you could write books about and every time I think of her, I smile.  That is a very special person, because most people barely get a smirk out of me anymore.  We loved Wayne & Garth, starting bands without knowing how to play instruments, and Dorney Park.  We would spend countless summer days at Dorney coming up with Saturday Night Live type sketches to amuse ourselves.  These included - talking loudly in ride lines about how so and so had died, gotten injured, or was currently in a coma from the ride, waving hysterically at strangers and calling out fake names from the top of water slide towers, and taking turns pretending each other was deaf and doing fake sign language.

But as childhood friendships often do, ours stalled in highschool.  I can't even tell you why because when I think of Sara, all the good stuff seems to have taken over my memory.  But thanks to facebook and Sara's mother, we found each other.  However, she lives across the country and I have only gotten to see her around Christmas.  So, this past Saturday was our day.  I picked her up at her childhood home and we went for lunch.  But, before I pulled out of the driveway, Sara had me close my eyes because she had a Christmas present for me.  When I opened them, there in my palm was Steve Martin's movie, "The Jerk". 

The Jerk was one of our absolute 14 year old favorites.  We could have acted out that whole movie we watched it so many times.  So, today I popped it in the kitchen TV while I was cooking and giggled along just like I was in 9th grade all over again.  Then I got to the part where Navin (Martin) finds out what his "special purpose" (aka penis) is for, and writes home to his adopted black family about it.  That part is hysterical.  But it weirdly, or maybe fatefully, pulled it all together for me...

I'm pregnant again.  Yup, baby number four for us.  David and I were always on the same page, kids wise.  A cool four kids never made us sweat, in fact, our scarey "those people are crazy!" number would probably be six.  But, I know how a lot of people are, and just hearing about more than two pregnancies makes them break out in hives and they look at you like you're Amish. So, I've felt apprehensive about telling people.  And I really shouldn't have to be.  It's not like I asked them to carry the baby for nine months, or come over and be my nanny.

One couple I'm friends with are these cool, atheist, libertarian types.  They are all, don't tell me what to do with my life, or body, or beliefs! And trust me, I won't!  But... They are very good at making me feel like they are judging or smirking at me.  Me and my breastfeeding, stay-at-home, multiple pregnancy lifestyle.  What the hell! I often think.  Aren't you supposed to be all chair-talking Clint Eastwood, to each his own? Not being forced to participate in religious type things... yes. "Backwards" woman activites like nursing and staying home... no.

So, I know what I'm up against out there.  In fact, a few days after posting the good news on Facebook, one of my husbands friends called me.  And it was one of those awkard conversations where instead of them yelling "congratulations!" into the phone, you get the feeling that they are calling to make sure you are "ok".  It literally sounds like they are trying to feel you out for mental illness, and every answer you give them they say, "ok, (pause) ok."  And then at the end they ask if this is your last one.  What do you say to that? I was truthful, and could feel the apologetic tone rising in my voice as if I had to apologize to society at large for the double sin of not only being pregnant with a fourth child, but also not being scared of a fifth one.

But then I sat down across the booth from Sara. We ate Italian food and talked about our lives.  Sara's long time girl friend had just left her.  She had big plans swimming in her heart for this girl... kids, picket fence, the whole nine yards.  I could feel the pain of a lost future, so much that I could practically touch the wound.  The waitress put down an extra soda and I tried to lighten the mood by telling Sara to drink it because every time I get pregnant I lose my taste for coffee and soda.  I literally go from a bold, black starbucks to nothing.  And every morning after the day I give birth, I drink a black cup of coffee like I didn't skip a beat.  Sara laughs and says, "That's so cool.  I love that. You're so lucky."  I smiled back but I really wanted to throw my arms around her and cry with relief and joy that only a good friend can give you even in the midst of their own personal pain.  She very simply made it ok for me to be happy, love being pregnant again, and feel lucky.

Everyone has a "special purpose". When you figure out what to do with yours it is definately something to write home to Momma about.  Some people use theirs with more purpose than others. But if you know someone that is happily having a fourth, or fifth baby, and they are happy about it... be happy with them.  It may not be your cup of tea, but to them, that tea tastes just fine.  Go make your own pot and be happy too.

Shoe Shaming

Yesturday on Facebook I posted a comment that got 40 repsonses (some were me responding to responses) but this is more than any wacky kid posting that I have ever put on there.  What the hell !?!  What was it about? Shoes - Specifically the riding boots that are galloping across women's fashion.  I hate them.

I don't hate every knee high boot, in fact many of them can look very stylish to me.  Just not these g-damn riding boots.  I may have taken the wrong angle on Facebook, however, concentrating mostly on the fact that their functional purpose is for horse-back riding and that I only want to see them used for such.  Female facebook friends cried foul, with claims of loving their dear boots.  This I have no doubt is true, woman to love these things.  My sister-in-law attacked back pointing out that have a pair of clear "jellies" that I have hung on to through the years and my fashion sense must be waining due to birthing three males.  I also don't spell well, and if she has to put up with that, I have to put up with her boots.  I said fine, but if she wears them in my presence I whinny and neigh at her.  Then I left the house and went to Wegmans, where I saw a plethera of female equestrians doing their Thanksgiving grocery shopping.

This morning, I drove my mini-van taking James and Warren to school.  They go to two Catholic schools clear across our small city from each other.  As I did, I watched people on the sidewalks going to work and kids going to school, and I realized what my deep down problem with the riding boots is - I have politicized these boots.

Fashion can be artistic and handcrafted and thus labels can get expensive.  I get this.  I also enjoy that this type of art can be "knocked off" so that everyone can enjoy the artistic expression if not the craftmanship.  Riding boots (and Sperry's, which I also threw under the bus) are not artistic, they are functional and usually well crafted.  But what is their original function?  Horseback riding and sailing/yachting, two activities of the Leisure Class (Veblen).  These two types of footwear bother me because they mimmic participation in two activities of the (usually) wealthy.   There is nothing particularly stylish or artisic about them other than being styled after something some WASP would take off and leave in the mudroom before saying, "Harriet, I have finished with my riding lesson, please draw me a bath and later I will be having cocktails on the yacht with Muffy and Emmett."  So, just being wealthy is stylish? Ugh.  And the functional footwear of the upper-class's recreational activites is what every day women are going to choose to wear around as part of their personal style? I just won't be a part of it. 

You think I'm going too far with this?  Is it really that big of a deal?  Yes.  Just look at the hoopla around Michele Obama and Ann Romney's fashion choices for their husband's conventions.  I'm not a big fan of the President right now, as much as I wish I could be, but - Michele Obama takes great pains not to dress in something too expensive.  Why? Because buying couture is almost offensive to the everyday woman.  But really, why should she care when the everyday woman is running around in riding boots.

Part Deux

Let me get some housekeeping out of the way. A very smart, and very sophisticated Jewish friend of mine told to me that my two references to "Jewish" in the last post were a bit "chilling" for him. This surprised me because since he's a published writer I thought my bad grammer and spelling mistakes would chill him most.  I told him - I only included the jokes because Judy is, in fact, Jewish and there are comedic things about that just like there are comedic things about me being Catholic, or a SAHM, or a hippy raw milk drinker, or any crazy shit about me. However, I am no Sarah Silverman, just a goyische girl who may not be able to make these jokes. I don't mean to offend and if I had to marry a son to anyone other than a good Catholic girl I would hope she'd be Jewish because Protestents are really no fun.

So, back to the story...

Yesturday, David came with us. I picked him up at work and as handsome as this guy is, I wish I had reminded him to dress up a little that morning (he's a fashion-free Engineer in a casual work enviroment). We picked up James and then I drove around the block five times trying to find a spot where I could parallel park the mini-van. This annoyed my precision driver husband and the annoyance escalated when I had no money for the meter and he was determined to find some change in the abyss of the van. I told him that I would just get a $10 ticket and it was no big deal... but it was big deal to him because he reminded me that I have never had just a $10 ticket because I never do anything in a timely manner and before I knew it, I'd be in handcuffs in the back of a constable's car making tearfull phone calls to my lawyer brother (yes, this actually happened and it's quite a story). God intervened, and we discovered that the meter was dead.

We entered the courthouse and got in line to go through security. As I was waiting I scanned the loby for either my attorney or team Sheindlin-Radley. I spotted the duo waiting by the elevators. The curls where still gone and this time the hair torture had escalated to a long extension pony-tail. But then I spotted it... the holy grail of natures revenge. As Boo looked up at the elevator numbers, I had a clear view of the top of his head. There, instead of thick annoying red hair, was a bald spot! A friar tuck, round like a yamacha, bald spot! Oh Glory Be of all things assanine and petty! Boo's hair was receding in an inversely porportionate amount to the length of Judy's ponytail like some evil pack with the devil they must have made.

We waited for my attorney and then checked in and waited in the hallway outside of family court. I should have remembered not to be worried about my husbands attire. Apparently, people roll out of bed and come to family court dressing worse than I would to go grocery shopping (maybe not Weis but definately Wegmans!). The court seemed to be running behind and David was definately a comfort as we were waiting. He joked about the times he had been there for his own parent's custody matters. I actually forgot he was old hat at this!

Finally the lawyers went in and out, and then I was brought in with Boo. The Master ordered more counseling and then we would reconvene in February. Again, he talked mostly to me and I don't blame him, team Sheindlin-Radley varies between commical and scary depending on what moment you look at them. I tend to avert my eyes so as not to have any innaproprate expressions on my face. The master also made an interesting concrete anaolgy for Boo's sake. He basically said that Boo had let the concrete cure for 15 years and it would be difficult to try to stir or form it any differently now. Boo must have been ready to say a lot of stupid stuff because Judy kept patting and rubbing his leg, like she was comforting an upset dog at the vet.

Then they wanted to talk about insurance because Boo is responsible for paying for this counseling and it was obviously making him uneasy. They said a lot of confusing things about payments and deductables and I think they were even confusing themselves. I was thinking, "Listen, I have three kids, you have a Bimmer. Just figure this shit out because I am busy woman." My lawyer said it for me in a much nicer way and then we left, but not before I had to go back and get James's early dissmisal school form signed because, you know, that's what us parents have to worry about.

Till next time....

50 Shades of Gray...

It's raining today, and I should be getting ready but I'm on here.  It's soothing and today is another shade of gray. My life has been shades of gray lately but at least today it's raining and I like rain.  It's water after-all and my husband says the only time that I look gracefull is in the water.  It also rained on my wedding day and someone told me that the Irish say that that is good luck.  I don't know if thats true or if they were just trying to make me feel better.  It did, I'm still married, and I like rain.

So, anyway, you know how sometimes the weather around you matches your mood, and when it dosen't it freaks you out.  Like how starkly contrasting 9/11 was... beautiful blue skies, the sunshine mocking us. I hated that. But one day a few weeks ago, I was driving my firstborn home in the mini-van.  My hand was rubbing his back as he was fighting back tears.  The world around me was gray.  Gray sky, gray city, dead faded bown leaves swirling around my car. The weather felt me... felt my saddness, my anxiety, and then it felt my anger. 

The first shade of gray came in July when I recieved a court document telling me that I was being sued in court for partial custody of James.  My 15 year old has spent all 15 years in my sole custody and the past 11 years in the shared physical custody of my husband and I.  I felt like laughing and murdering someone at the same time.  And by someone, I mean Boo Radley and/or his newly-wedded attorney wife, Judith Sheindlin.

I showed the papers to James, and we immediately when into defense mode.  James sat at the pool in the sunshine and wrote a letter to the court expressing his desire to have no contact with Boo Radley and stating that he had a good father that he loved.  The letter was harsh and beautiful at the same time and it made David and I cry.  I started writing my Answer and New Matter. Then I took a trip to the child support office... yeah, that's right.  I didn't have an attorney yet, and wasn't ready to get one, but I had worked in a few law firms. I realized that Boo had his attorney wife to help him... but after doing some research and asking around about her, I couldn't figure out what was up with her.  I did find a cute wedding/honeymoon site with pictures from their recent destination wedding.  They went to the D.R. which only infuriated me more because that was MY honeymoon spot! These two were going to piss on everything!

At the end of July or early August, I had my first custody mediation. I went into the day a little stressed, but really, I have had sole custody of a child who is now 15 for his entire life! And this 15 year old is smart, well-spoken, and an old-soul of sorts... he knows what he wants out of life, and I trust him. I was just going in there to fight for what he wants... to stay completey with the parents and family he's had for 11 plus years.

So, I showed up with James (who demanded to be there), and my brother (an attorney, but not a family attorney).  Boo had Judy with him of course.  The mediator would only let Boo and myself in for the mediation.  We were in there for 20-30 min and this joker didn't make eye contact with me once while I looked him right in the face almost the whole time.  His answers were weird. I felt mine were heart-felt. I told the mediator that James wanted to be heard, so she sent Boo and I out and then took James alone.  Afterward, she brought us back in.  The mediator turned to me and said, "You have a really cool kid." I beamed. Then Boo piped up (imagine a meat-head type of voice) "Yeah, I know! That's why I want to see him!".  I stopped beaming and felt rage inside....that rage wanted to say, "Shut the fuck up you shit-head, what the hell do you know? And by the way, his awesomeness is no thanks to you!" Instead, I focused on a picture on the wall and told the rage that I agree but we need to be quiet.   Boo wanted a custody schedule set up right there, and dropped a bomb that he wanted James every other weekend.  I was like, really?  David and I have a teenager that loves us and is bonded to us and he doesn't want to spend that much time with us.  You want a teenager that doesn't like you every other weekend?  You be crazy! I think the mediator thought so too, because she said that nothing was going to be decided today and she would forward the case to the next level.  Boo left in a huff.  I went to the lobby and discussed hot-dogs with my brother and James to keep cool.

Next up was that Child Support mediation.  This time Judy Sheindlin entered herself as Bo Radley's attorney.  So, from that point on I began to refer to them as the Sheindlin-Radley team.  First she accosted me in the waiting room with her Louis Vouitton Bag to discuss the support.  I told her that since she was the defendents wife, I would just hang tight to discuss with the court mediator.  She looked annoyed and stalked off, heals click-clacking and designer hand bag swinging, like some Jewish Kardashian sister.  Inside Judy really took over, Boo barely said anything... at one point I pointed out to the mediator the Judy was Boo's wife.  The mediator looked at them and said, "Oh, thats weird."  I said, "Yeah it is!"  Judy started talking fast about how it doesn't matter because she is a registered attorney and is allowed be here.  I thought, "Settle down honey, we aren't saying you can't be here, we are just pointing out that it's weird."  At the end we settled on an amount that is nice to have, but will barely cover groceries for a teenage boy.  I left and got into my mini-van and passed team Sheindlin-Radley getting into a black BMW... the rage started trying to tell me all kinds of things!

The VERY NEXT day James and I showed up for the Custody Conference with a court Master. This time I had hired a family attorney.  I must have looked really good the day before because Attorney Judy showed up in lots of make-up and had flat-ironed her J-fro.  That was shame because her curls were honestly very pretty and I could actually hear her hair crying.  This time the attorneys and/or wives went in first.  Then James went in alone for what seemed like forever.  When he came out, he was upset.  He felt like the Master kept trying to push him, and he felt like he hadn't been heard or that the Master didn't care.  My rage started whispering.  Then my attorney told me that team Sheindlin-Radley was claiming that I had written James's letter to the court.  Anger flashed in James's eyes when he heard this and my rage was talking louder.  Then everyone (except James) went in to see the Master.  He was a large imposing man who obviously had a lot of life experience and enjoyed hearing himself talk.  He spoke mostly to me, telling me that I was obviously a good mom (when he said this, Boo Radley snickered and I had to control my rage from flinging my body over the table to strangle him).  The master thought that James was stressed (ya' think) and was ordering counseling to be paid for entirely by Boo Radley, and we would meet again in several weeks.  He also told Boo that David was James's father and he needed to respect that no matter what happened.  That didn't seem to sit well with the Sheindlin-Radley team, but oh well, the truth hurts.

So, that gray day when I was rubbing my child's back in comfort, we were leaving the counselor's office.  He had told James to ask me questions about when I was pregnant and considering adoption, and when I didn't Boo Radley got angry and deserted the pregnancy and the baby.  It was a hard, sad talk.  I told him that adoption was a good, noble, loving thing to do.  But I thought I could do this child-raising thing, and was not strong enough to give him away.   Boo didn't want to give the baby away out of nobility or love, he wanted the baby away out of selfishness, to solve the problem.  And now he was back out of selfishness. 

He doesn't want what's best for James.  He wants what's best for him, to clear his guilt or make him look better to his wife and her family and friends.  I know this by the things he says... "I deserve to see him...It's MY right to see him, etc".... never about what James wants, just what HE wants. To force a 15 year old young man to spend time with him... suddenly uproot him from a strong nuclear family every other week, take his free time from him, make his work and fun time a hassle.  It's about Boo.

So, today I have to drag my ass back to court for Family Court Part Duex and it's raining so I hope it will be good luck... I will let you know more about the antics of team Sheindlin-Radley, and the funny things my rage wants to say or do.  Hopefully James wins his battle, and I will do my best to help him and slowly the shades of gray will get lighter and bluer.

*disclaimer* Any references to murder or bodily harm to others are meant in jest. 

15 years... 15 years... 15 years...

15 years... 15 years...  15 years... It didnt really hit me untill now, on eve of his birthday, that 15 is kind of a big number to be dealing with when your only 32. Oh, I've played the wierd numbers game plenty of times before... Imagine having an 18 year old when your 35, a 30 yr old when your 47.... And then you can play the slots together when you are 70 and 87. 

15 years ago on this night I was ready.  I had made the tough decisions, gotten rid of the people who were in my way, had gotten over a painful teenage heart-ache that would put that stupid MTV show to shame, and had left my old life in the past.  I had put all this in a bottle, threw it out to sea and sat on the beach in a quiet calm watching it float away untill I couldn't see it anymore.  Then I left with a determined smirk on my face and a new future growing in my belly. So, on the night of July 2nd, 1997, I went to bed ready.

He was already a week late and I spent the day eating funnel cake at the PA Dutch festival in a nearby town.  At this point I was over getting stared at for being a freshed faced teenager with a huge belly and had braved the festival.  Speaking of which, embarassment is a tough thing, and in this situation it probablly shaped me for life.  Thanks world of rude people, I will forever be a little weird.

The highschool situation had been tough, and I was more than thankful for the summer.  My mom had gotten me a counselor to help me deal with the situation of a teenage pregnancy.  I remember that I loved going and talking to the woman... she helped me find a lot of inner strength.  She told me to just own the situation as it was inevitable the gossipers would be proven right soon (at 5 and 6 months it was still questionable).  So, one day in the hall a boy that I had always found irritating approached me and asked point-blank, "Are you pregnant?"   "Yes." I answered him, and glowered as he ran away excited with his news-breaking information.  The next day I showed up at school in a shirt that said "under construction" across my chest and an arrow pointing to my stomach.  "Just own it and keep your head high.", I told myself. 

At this point things were getting better and tougher.  I found it was actually a big breather to be out in the open but then "friends" starting dropping like flies.  There is not a better "friend killer" than having something socially unnacceptable happen to you... or if your on the swim team and you make the district and state relay times slow, the Coach and his party of 3 hench-girls will be up your ass trying to get you to take pregnancy tests with feigned "concern".  Then, if you're me, you get pissed and sue the coach.  Good-bye swimming friends, thanks for your "concern" fuckers...

I don't know how common teenage pregnancy was in 1997, but another wierd thing that happened that I can't imagine happening now is that random couples would call or send letters looking to adopt my baby. This was really weird and kind of made me protective of my pregnancy.   But now, when I look back, the desperation of these people is palpatable.  Good, able parents reaching out to find that baby they so desperately want.  And to be perfectly honest... my baby was white and most adoptive parents are white... it was a situation these people couldn't help but try for.  When I hear of unwanted pregnancies and what people do with them, I think of these desperate couples and my heart aches.

I woke up early in the morning on July 3rd, 1997 with my first contraction.  I didn't know what it was... I waited untill I felt another.  Then I timed it untill I felt another one.... then I timed again... the time was the same.  I woke up mom (my dad was traveling).  And we we checked into the hospital around 5 am.  My mom and my older brother kept my company untill it got too bad... walking around with me and feeding snow-cones to me.  When I got my epidural and was sitting in bed, my mom and brother ate hot-dogs and chit-chatted... it was all very relaxed.  The docter asked if I minded if students helped with my delivery for training and educational purposes.  I didn't mind, and I actually loved having them there.  While the docter was getting down to buisness and I was pushing out the baby... they would say things like, "Oh! I can see his head! He has brown hair!" And it would make me smile.  When when I delivered him, they were the first to ask me his name with tears in their eyes to match my own... "James", I said.

15 year.... 15 years.... 15 years.... 15 years has passed and it's now the morning of his birth.  In 15 years, I graduated highschool and college, I continued to have a successfull college swimming career, I got married, and have bought my second house... I have 2 more boys, a dog and a cat.  I have had good jobs and am now a stay-at-home-mom writing this blog and driving a mini-van.  Most importantly, I have raised a good kid, who's on the brink of adulthood, which he will enter with a good head on his shoulders and a personality to die for.

July 3rd is a celebration of two lives that had everything against them, but had the whole world ahead of them.  Happy Birthday James, and thank you... without you, I don't know where I'd be right now.