We have to be REMINDED to be considerate, now?

Posted by Kim (Braiding Mommy ).

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Yesterday I received an email from my BIL titled, "[SIL]'s Birthday!". His wife, my SIL's birthday is Saturday. I consider myself pretty close to SIL, so a few weeks ago, I got her a birthday card, a gift card, and got a birthday card for Pippi to send to her aunt. I was waiting to send them, because sometimes we see her around her birthday (though this year, I was doubting it due to some family circumstances,
etc). So when I got the email, my first response was that maybe BIL was having a party for her. Cool.

Not quite... he was, and I quote, soliciting me, and other friends he had emailed, to send her cards for her birthday. Something he said is called a "card shower" (an idea he credited to his mother... my MIL... oy).

I've never heard of such an idea, and frankly, it sounds absurd. I was so mystified that I googled it, and yep, I found links to people requesting "card showers". Ok, now, I understand for Aunt Bessie who is turning 99 in the nursing home. Or for a family member who is very ill... or something of the like. But for my SIL? Who is turning a rather uneventful age? I'm confused.

My main point of confusion is why people have to be asked, reminded, or even "solicited" to be considerate and thoughtful. Sure - people forget birthdays. They forget cards and they forget to call. My best bud has mixed up my birthday a time or two - but I would never want to think that my nearest and dearest have to be point blank asked to remember me.

I already had a card for her. I sent her a card when she went back to work after her baby came. I sent her a card for mother's day (ok, I guess I am a card person). I was tempted to hit reply and say "yeah, got it covered...". Because you don't have to ASK me to do what family SHOULD do. And... I almost get a little offended at that idea.

I know, this is trivial. But things like this make me concerned about things like human decency. Maybe it's the type of people they are (my SIL did send out a rather business-like email to me and her other various friends asking them to join them at a pumpkin patch on Saturday in Oct... surprise, no 'friends' turned up).

Call me casual. Call me not 'with-it'. Call me old-fashioned. I'm not rsvp'ing to the card shower. (And thanks for letting me vent in a safe place!)

How it all began

Posted by Lara David.

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[This is the first in a series of posts about some recent struggles I've been having. There are seven posts in total, all up at my blog (see the link at the bottom), and I would be grateful for any and all feedback, thoughts, suggestions, or general comments you have, either on this post or, if you have the time to read it, the series as a whole.]

I was trying to think of an easy way to introduce the topic of where I had disappeared to since Iggy's obituary, and found myself thwarted at every turn. But then I read this Mocha post, and it gave me the perfect opening:

You wouldn't know by just looking at me, but I just spent a week in the hospital psych ward.

Big news, I know. Surprising news? Probably not so much. For one thing, many of you out there reading this already knew, and, in fact, even came to see me. But even those of you finding out for the first time had a lot of warning (here, here, and here, for example). For all that I've lived through some serious stuff, I just was not handling recent events well at all. I was cutting again - something I've struggled with for years - and it was getting really out of hand. And for the last few days leading up to my hospitalization, things had gotten drastically worse.

When things first started almost a month ago, my emotions were all over the place. I was crazy upset, but I still had moments where I could laugh and feel mostly normal. And in the midst of the up-and-down roller coaster of emotions, I was relying on my friends for support.

But then the roller coaster stopped. The good moments went away, and even the bad moments became infrequent. Mostly there was just... nothing. I just felt numb. Unless I was in a sobbing fit of absolute despair and hopelessness, I pretty much didn't care about anything at all. And worst of all, I stopped talking to just about all my friends and family.

It's strange for me to remember now, that complete and utter lack of emotion. It's just so unlike me, to genuinely feel nothing - to genuinely not care about anything. I was in that state for most of that weekend and the early part of the week. And that was the state I was in Wednesday night.

Not too long after mourning Iggy's death (no, that's not what pushed me over the edge, sad though I was), I found myself curled in a ball, sobbing. J. came in to ask if there was anything he could do, but I pretty much told him to go away and leave me alone. He did, and I eventually stopped crying and found myself back in the numb, fog-like state in which I often found myself in those days. And in that state, I began to consider suicide.

It's hard to explain the confused jumble of thoughts I experienced in those two hours - yes, I pretty much just thought about life, death, and the options each presented for close to two hours. First in my room, lying in bed staring at the wall. Then standing in the bathroom staring at myself in the mirror holding the bottle of pills (left over from my last ER visit). Then finally sitting back in my bed, this time looking back and forth between the pile of pills I'd poured into my right hand and the glass of water in my left.

When the doctors asked me later if I'd been trying to kill myself when I took the pills, I told them, "Not as such," or, "It wasn't as explicit as that." And those answers are true. I really didn't take the pills so that I would die. I knew it was possible, but I deemed it a low risk. I mostly just didn't care either way anymore, so with sort of a morbid (and completely irrational) curiosity, I took the pills just to see what would happen.

It didn't take long for fear to kick in and me to decide I didn't *actually* want to wait it out and "see what would happen." I went to J., who was watching TV in the office. He could tell by my sort of stricken and scared face that something was up.

J: What's wrong?

Me: Um...

J: Tell me - what is it?

Me: Um... Hypothetically speaking, how many of my anti-nausea pills do you think I could take and still be okay?

J: ...I have no idea. How many did you take?

So I told him, and he called Poison Control to ask for advice. They said there could be some "serious side effects," and he should get me to an ER. So, almost exactly a month later, we headed back to the ER.

Initial burst of fear aside, I actually still didn't care much about what was happening. I sort of stared blankly out the window in silence the whole car ride there, then responded with one- or two-word answers to almost everything I was asked in the ER. The first thing that got a real reaction from me was the liquid charcoal they made me drink. That stuff is NASTY. I was convinced all their talk of its "binding to the medication" was a lie, and it was really just to make me throw up. I couldn't even finish it, though the threat of having it fed to me through a tube in my nose was scary enough to get me to choke down a lot more than I would have otherwise.

Eventually they put me in a room and started taking blood and monitoring my vitals and all that fun stuff. They also apparently flagged me as a major risk of some sort (okay, with good reason, since I'd been brought in on a purposeful overdose with huge gashes up and down my wrists and forearms) - when I opened the door to go use the bathroom, a security guard watching my room stood up and gruffly asked, "Where are you going?" "The bathroom?" I responded quite timidly. He sort of nodded his permission and I walked past him warily. But then I apparently took too long in the bathroom, because I heard my nurse ask where I was and if anyone had checked on me, and suddenly the guard was knocking loudly on the bathroom door. "What are you doing? Are you okay?" "I'm fine," I squeaked. "I'm just going to the bathroom..." From then on, when I went, I made an effort to be much quicker.

After some number of hours, one of the psychiatrists came to talk to me. He asked me lots of questions, listened carefully to both my answers and my silences (as all good listeners do), and eventually said, "Well, I think it might be good for you to come up and check in for a few days so we can work on finding some solutions. Would you be okay with that?" I nodded and sort of mumbled an assent. "Okay," he said. "Well, we'll get you registered and everything. You'll be in the voluntary wing, which is good, 'cause if you'd said no I just would have put you in the involuntary wing anyway."

Wha- ? Huh? Interesting illusion of choice you gave me there, Doc. Apparently I was coming to the looney bin whether I wanted to or not (although being here voluntarily changes my privileges, which I'll address in a later post). But either way, I was looking at multiple days in the hospital - my first time ever staying overnight in the hospital as a patient...

If you'd like to read the rest of this series, Post #2 is here and you can follow the links at the bottom of each post from there. Thanks for reading.

(Virtually) Violated

Posted by Anonymous.

If you'd like to use this space to tell stories/secrets/confessions of your dangerous maternal mind, anonymously or otherwise, send me an e-mail (see sidebar) and you too can enjoy the refuge of the Basement.

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My husband and I have been shopping for a new home for some months now. When the time was right we put our own house on the market (it sold after ten days!) and placed a contingency offer on a house we fell in love with months earlier but couldn't afford. Coincidentally the house came down $15,000 in price right around the time we placed our own home on the market, so we were able to make an offer on the home we love. I've been writing about our house-hunting search on my own blog because a) I can, b) I think many people can relate to the ups and downs of it all, and c) I think our experiences can help others down the road when they embark on this journey.

Fast-forward to this week. We just finished the torturous round of inspections on both homes. In the course of having the home we want to purchase inspected, it was discovered that there were some cracks in the bricks, perhaps indicating foundation problems. We had a structural engineer come out and all was discovered to be just fine. Of course I also wrote about my anxieties concerning the discovery of the cracks; my worry that we wouldn't be able to buy the home we want so badly and that we would be left without a place to call home when we close on our current home in two and a half weeks--this was before the engineer came out and pronounced everything fine.

Yesterday we discovered, via our realtor, that the sellers of the house we want to buy found my blog.

Yes, they *found* my blog. Not only did they then read the blog (well, who can blame them) but they are upset about my house-hunting posts for some reason. Our realtor wasn't supposed to know this fact and we're not supposed to know it but we do. I know it is idiotic to feel violated and intruded-upon when you are writing a blog but I do. The couple we're buying the home from have a teenage son and a daughter in college. The daughter attends the same college where my husband teaches. I have been careful in my blog never to talk about my husband's job, or really any personal matters concerning us--it's primarily a blog about my kids, about the challenges of juggling our jobs with parenting, and about my thoughts on any number of issues--political, literary, philosophical. The inspections are done and we've signed off on the repairs the sellers will make. Their reading my blog doesn't seem to have done any harm to this whole process, except that it's harmed *me*. I feel awful about this. I hate knowing they have read the blog. I hate knowing they can still read it. I even hate buying the house I love from them. And most of all I hate the fact that I am now contemplating discontinuing the blog I love so much.

What are my options here? What would others do? Should I proceed blithely on blogging or should I take down that blog and perhaps start another, carefully shrouded one? Do I have the right to feel violated? I am not a blogger to use pseudonyms and perhaps this was unwise. I feel foolish now, as if I were flirting with disaster just by doing what I love--writing about those I love; reaching out and making connections from my world out to the worlds of others.

Hope and Fear

Posted by Anonymous.

If you'd like to use this space to tell stories/secrets/confessions of your dangerous maternal mind, anonymously or otherwise, send me an e-mail (see sidebar) and you too can enjoy the refuge of the Basement.

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I found out I was pregnant on December 17th, 2005. The next day, my best friend gave birth to her son, my god son. I didn’t tell her I was pregnant when we visited her in the hospital. I wanted that day to be about her and her new son.

Two weeks later, I had a miscarriage.

I went home – to my parents’ house - for Christmas with my husband. On Christmas Eve, I told my parents, brother and sister I was six weeks pregnant. They cried - they were so happy. It would have been my parent’s’ first grandchild. They talked about names for the baby. I tried not to get too involved in those conversations. I thought it was too early. They thought I was being superstitious.

We came back to Toronto on Boxing Day. I went to the bathroom and saw blood in my underwear. We went to a clinic. The doctor said sometimes that happened, but if I had cramping and continued to bleed, I should go to a hospital.

I continued to bleed. We went to the hospital the next day. My husband came in the room with me. We were in there for three hours. They took blood tests. The doctor said I might be having a miscarriage. He told my husband to keep an eye on me overnight because I might hemorrhage. My husband didn’t sleep that night. He woke up every two hours, feeling my temperature.

The entire process lasted about four days. We were both off work. We distracted ourselves by running errands. One night I had really bad cramps, like having a period but worse. My husband asked me if we should go to the hospital, but I just wanted to be at home. I didn’t want to be in a waiting room, or lay on one of those tables, wearing an awful hospital nightgown, waiting for the doctor to come. There was nothing they could do anyway.

I wanted to be at home, in my own bed, with my husband’s arms wrapped around me. Letting my body go through what it was going to go through.

The next morning, I went to the bathroom and it came out of me. It plopped in the toilet. I’ll never forget that sound, that feeling.

I left the bathroom, stood in the hallway and cried out. It was over.

My husband came out of the bedroom and put his arms around me and we both cried.

We weren’t trying to get pregnant. The doctors all asked us if we had been trying. The answer was no, but in those short weeks, we had gotten used to the idea. And besides, what difference would it make if we were trying or not?

I had an ultrasound shortly after the miscarriage, to see if there was anything left and if I’d need a D and C. There was nothing there. But they found something on my ovary.

At first, they thought it was a cyst. And they told me to wait three months, have an ultrasound and see if it went away. I had three ultrasounds before the doctor referred me to a specialist. The specialist said it might be a tumor.

I had a cancer test. I had to pee in a jug for 24 hours. The test was negative.

They referred me to a surgeon. He’s going to remove the tumor in December. He asked if I had any concerns. I said my only concern was being able to get pregnant. He said the tumor was small enough that he’d be able to preserve the ovary.

If not, the other one is working fine.

I can’t help but think I should have had the surgery sooner. We played the wait-and-see game for too long.

I’m 32 years old.

And I can’t help but think the miscarriage was my fault.

Maybe it was the coffee, or the wine. Maybe I should have gone to the doctor more often. Maybe I should have taken better care of myself.

My friends are starting to have kids. Some are pregnant and have morning sickness.

What I’d give to have morning sickness.

I wonder what my life will be like if I can’t have kids. I wonder how I’ll cope if I have another miscarriage. I wonder why no one talks about miscarriages.

I wonder if this is it for me.

I wonder if that was my one chance.

I wonder if there is hope for me.

Wish

Posted by Kate of Because I Said So.

If you'd like to use this space to tell stories/secrets/confessions of your dangerous maternal mind, anonymously or otherwise, send me an e-mail (see sidebar) and you too can enjoy the refuge of the Basement.

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The longer I have a blog, the more aware I am of my limitations in posting based on my audience. I have to be careful and political about when and how I mention my husband... too many days in a row of bitching makes him cranky and defensive. I go easy on comments about
the sex life, because in my heart of hearts I know that most of my readers are large hairy sweaty men who breathe heavy and salivate a lot (not YOU, of course, but some of those other people...). And I don't talk about one thing that presses on my heart on a daily basis,
because... well, just listen.

My sister Mary is 15. She is smart, and funny, and precious, and I just love her to pieces. We all do. Kids love her, babies love her, dogs love her. She's not sweet in a fake-cute-bubbly sort of way, she's just observant and insightful and witty, and when she is sarcastic it's well-aimed and deserved. She thinks a lot, and is one of those rare people who actually seems to think before she speaks.

She has muscular dystrophy, and at 15 she is, in all likelihood, already past middle-aged.

Her form of the disease, nemaline myopathy, is incredibly rare. Back in 1992, when she was diagnosed (a process which, by itself, took 14 months), she was the hundredth reported case, ever. Worldwide. That's not to say that she's the 100th person to ever have it; most infants born with it die before they can be diagnosed. In fact, we believe that this is why my father's brother died in infancy, but there's no way to verify.

When Mary was born, some idiot in the guise of a doctor told my parents that they should look into supportive housing for her, "Just put her away somewhere. She'll never walk or talk anyway." I'm still impressed that my mother didn't bludgeon him to death with the examining table. She walks now, albeit with braces, and talks, albeit quietly and sort of nasally, and has enriched the lives of so many people.

For several years, I was able to sort of brush aside that nagging awareness that most people with the infantile form, those that survive infancy, have a sort of plateau through most of their childhood. Essentially, what her illness does is create an extra protein throughout all of her muscles, acting a bit like static on a radio station - the muscles still work, but the protein gets in the way. While she's still growing, the healthy muscle tissue can keep up with the proteins, and she's remaining relatively healthy. Prone to pneumonia, prone to broken bones because she falls easily and can't catch herself, but living at home and going to school and going to vacations and fighting with our mother... as normal a life as anyone could ask for.

But someday she will stop growing. Someday her muscles and body will be essentially as formed as they can be, and those damn nemaline rods will start to take over. Most people with this disease are in wheelchairs by the time they're 20. Most have succumbed to pneumonia, because their lungs simply aren't strong enough to clear themselves, by 22.

22.

I don't know how to talk about this. I don't know how to deal with it. She and I have talked before, and she's so well-adjusted that I kind of want to pinch her, sometimes. I asked her once if she ever wishes her disease away, and she said, "Well, not really. This is my life, it's what's normal for me. If I didn't have it, I wouldn't have gone on the trip to Disney World. I wouldn't have the same friends I have. Everything would be different." (The Children's Wish
Foundation - like Make A Wish but for kids with long-term, rather than terminal, illnesses - sent our family on an all-expenses-paid trip to Florida in 1998.)

Her perspective is healthy and good, but you know what? *I* wish it away. I wish it away every day. I want her healthy. I want her to be old. I want her to make all of the stupid college mistakes that I made. I want my children to introduce her to their children.

And I can't post about her on my blog, because she reads my blog every day, and I don't want her to realize the extent to which I think about this. I want her to feel normal and happy, whatever that means, and I don't want to make her self-conscious. Enough common acquaintances read my blog that I would feel I was invading her privacy if I took it there.

I don't need advice on this one. There's nothing I feel like I need to DO. Just needed to vent.

Thanks.

Mourning

Posted by Anonymous.

If you'd like to use this space to tell stories/secrets/confessions of your dangerous maternal mind, anonymously or otherwise, send me an e-mail (see sidebar) and you too can enjoy the refuge of the Basement.

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I am a new mother to a beautiful nine month old boy. Every time I look at him I am completely in awe of him. Everyday he teaches me what it means to love unconditionally because before him, I think I always held back just a little bit.

You see I grew up in home that was chaotic to say the least. My mom is bi-polar and her illness ruled our lives in ways that would likely shock you. But my brother and I survived and we have both moved on to become stable adults in loving relationships.

That being said there is a small part of that mourns that I do not have a mother to turn to for support. When I speak with her everything is about her and how hard her life is. When I told her I was pregnant (I waited until I was five months along in case we miscarried) she said "well, make sure you don't fall down the stairs and kill the baby." I can hear you gasping but yes this was her response. [She lost twins before I was born and is convinced it was due to a fall.]

When I asked her what I was like as a baby she said "How can I remember that - it was over thirty years ago." And a little part of me wept because I'll never know when I got my first tooth or if I loved to giggle like my son does. I mourn because I want that so much. I want a mother who is loving and supportive and does not make me feel like I am never good enough. The
reality is that I will never have that, and I'm trying to accept it but for now I just hold my son and whisper in his ear that I will always love him no matter what.

No Balls

Posted by Mamacita.

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*******

I'm embarrassed about what I'm going to tell you today. I don't feel good about it and I want to change. I'm hoping that writing about it will help. So bear with me through the background.

We have some neighbors who have become good friends since my pregnancy and the birth of Garcon. She is a respiratory therapist in the neonatal infant care unit (NICU) at a local hospital, and he's a former nurse. In the very very beginning, roughly weeks 1-6, we struggled with Garcon crying uncontrollably during the witching hour. She gave me some suggestions from her experience in working with many, many infants that really made a difference for him in the 5-9pm period. For that, I'm grateful. Now, we see them about once a week and occasionally, they'll babysit for Garcon- or supervise their 12 year old daughter babysitting for him. They genuinely enjoy him and are nice people.

The trouble is this: Because we relied and appreciated their advice in the beginning, they have begun to take small liberties that make me uncomfortable.

Case 1: Once, when Garcon was very young, less than two months, we were chatting with them in the driveway. Neighborman offered to hold Garcon, and before I knew what was happening, had dug out some eye schmutz that had accumulated in the corner of Garcon's eye and on his lashes. He handed him back and said, look - I was able to get that goop off his eye.

HUH!? Wait - you touched my baby's eye? Without clean hands? After working in the yard for a couple of hours? EXCUSE ME? I should tell you, dear reader, that when I need to clean Garcon's eye, I wet a cotton ball with warm water and rub gently. He had a clogged tear duct in the beginning, and would get the schmutz pretty offten, and so I was used to cleaning his eye in a very clean manner.

I was a bit ticked that he'd even think to do that. I didn't say anything at the time, and as I thought about it later, began to be really pissed off.

Case 2: Another time, when Garcon was about four months (and I was still home part time), DH came home and told me he'd backed the car into a post. Well, at the time, we had one nice car and one older, reliable but less snazzy, slightly dinged-up car. He'd backed the nice car into a post. Damaging the bumper. Of the first new car I'd ever owned. I was ticked! And a little post-partum, I confess. I really got mad at him about that - and also vented that Garcon had been a challenge all day. Well, DH went outside and looked at the car, and probably looked stressed. Neighborwoman yelled hello across the street, he said hello back. She decided he looked worked up, and volunteered to come over and help me with Garcon. I was still sitting in the house, ticked about the car when she walked in the house. Now, I was ticked at DH that he went for reinforcements on Garcon - when I was really mad about the car, not baby. But we have her in the house, and now look! Neighborman came over to see his little buddy - and all I want to do is be left alone with my DH and son. Then, they offer to take him away to give us time! I continued to protest, saying everything was fine. They asked about feeding, they asked about sleeping. It took several more protests than necessary for them to actually get the hint and leave. I didn't want to say in front of them and DH, that I was pissed at DH about the car. Shouldn't be necessary to get them to leave.

It was here that I began to have the sense that they felt they knew more about this than we do. Despite our lack of experience, we definitely know what's best for our family and our Garcon. More time passed and I forgot about my annoyance.

Case 3: Then, last week, we asked them to watch Garcon while we went to an event in the city. We provided plenty of formula and Stage 1 food, and everything seemed to be fine. When I picked him up, Neighborwoman mentioned that she'd given him Multi-Grain Cheerios and he liked them. WHAT? You gave my son new food without asking me? There's several things wrong with this. We're only on Stage One foods, Multi-Grain Cheerios have a ton of sugar and tons of additives/preservatives beyond what's he's been exposed to, AND MOST IMPORTANTLY: we have a gluten intolerance on my side of the family (My dad) and are NOT GOING TO INTRODUCE GLUTEN FOR ANOTHER 5 MONTHS, when Garcon is one. I confess I was shocked. Am I so naive that I assume other people won't feed him things without asking me? That they assume they know more than me and feed him whatever they want? I'm sure that when her kids were in the high chair, she'd throw a handful of Cheerios on the tray while getting the rest of the food ready. I know I'll do that, eventually (hopefully). For a second, I thought maybe I was being silly - but then I clammed up and muttered something about having to go, and NEVER ACTUALLY ADDRESSED IT WITH HER. I'm using a lot of caps, because aside from being annoyed with her, I'm more mad at myself.

Where are my stones? Where is my god-given mother-will-kill-for-young instinct? And why the hell can't I speak up the minute these things happen? I'm pissed at myself. I've stood up to other people on lots of other things related to Garcon, but just haven't got it together about these two people. Is it because on some subconscious level I think of them as authority figures? Is it because they're friends and I don't want to damage it? Is it because I am too nice and want to be liked? Ok, I get that from my mother. In the last case, I have a very good, very legitimate reason to not introduce foods, and I didn't say anything. I'm obviously making the situation worse for myself for not being more assertive each time. Next time something happens, as I'm sure it will, I need to respond appropriately and assertively, but do so in a way that does not reflect my latent anger about the first three cases. Help.

Looking For A Happy Ending

Posted by Joanne of Insane Mom.

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*******

So, help a girl out, will ya?

I don’t know how to explain my situation without giving you half my life story…I apologize in advance for the length of this post. And, I really hope I don’t bore you to death.

I am an (almost) thirty year old single mom. I have three beautiful, amazing, intelligent and challenging kids.

I have been dating someone since June of last year. He’s incredible. I care about him like you wouldn’t believe. He cares about me that much, too. It’s awesome. And it’s not.

He is a 32 year old single guy who has never been married and has no kids. You could say he is picky or you could say he is smart. He’s been waiting for a girl who can make him “all the way” happy. I don’t think he expected it to be someone like me. You know - the separated, three kids kinda thing. Part of his life’s dream has been to meet that girl that makes him feel good, marry her and have a family. I crossed marriage and kids off my to-do list years ago.

In itself this is not a huge issue. I could get married again (after I get a divorce, I suppose). I could (with a little bit of surgery) even have more kids. The issue is that blending our lives together is altogether challenging. It’s not working. We know it’s not working. But, we can’t seem to let go either.

A relationship between him and my kids just does not come naturally – for him or for them. My kids are 11, 9 and 6. They think he’s cool and he does cool stuff, but mostly he’s just the guy mom spends her time with when she’s not hanging out with us. For him, the chaos of my life is just too much. It’s one thing to get accustomed to life with kids over time, gradually – have a baby, adjust; have another baby, adjust and so on… But to walk into an established family with three strong-willed (loud) kids and try to become part of that is not so easy. It’s culture shock. And, it’s not getting any easier. We both feel it should be by now.

We have tried to end our relationship several times. But, instantly we both regret it…and neither of us have the willpower to go through with it. It’s like quitting smoking or sticking to a diet…the temptation is just too great. When we break up, we both feel lost. For the day or two that we actually stay broken up, we still talk constantly and we end up convincing ourselves that we should keep trying. Or, if we don’t talk I go crazy wondering what he’s doing and whether he’s really over me this time. He does the same thing. So, we get back together, more out of desperation than logic. We are both logical thinkers most of the time, but when it comes to this relationship we’re definitely not.

Ok, here’s where I get into my life story. I just want everyone to understand where I’m coming from. I had my first child a week after my 18th birthday. My husband and I got married when I was just 20 and baby number two came along shortly after. Baby number three came when I was 23. I was married with three kids at age 23. Wow. Can you believe that?

Anyway, my husband was not very nice. He was the first boy with whom I had a ‘real’ relationship and things were bad from the start. I was young and I thought if I tried hard enough, I could make him happy. In my mind, his happiness meant success and his unhappiness meant failure.

We struggled financially. We were both in our early twenties working minimum wage jobs trying to pay the bills. I thought if I could make more money I could make him happy. So, I went back to college while working full time at McDonalds and raising my two year old son and infant daughter.

I thought if I could get a better job and make more money for him to spend, he would be happy with me. I thought he would respect me. I thought he would stop hurting me. When I graduated from college I got a great job right away. I thought this was the answer to my prayers. But instead of getting better, things got worse. He was a dangerous man, my husband. I knew this but I ignored it. Foolishly, I thought if I could just do better, if I could be a better wife and a better mother, things would be better. Two years ago, things got so bad that my then seven-year-old daughter had to flee to our neighbour’s house to call the police. I’m so ashamed of that. The police came and took him away and my kids and I picked up the pieces. We’re better for it now. That much I know.

The brief summary of my married life above is because I want you to understand my full dilemma now. I am with someone who cares about me. He is gentle and sweet. And, even though I know in my heart that it can’t work, the thought of walking away from that is unthinkable. I’m so afraid that I will never find that again.

I realize I’ve blurred the issue here. My dilemma is in finding the strength to let go of something that really I want to hang onto. I love this man. But I know he is not right for me, he is not right for my life and I am not right for his. I want to know how long it will take to get over him. I want to know that I won’t always feel like I’m crumbling inside. I am a logical person. I know I will get over the end of this relationship once we decide to end it. But it’s so much easier to say than do.

Dear Friend

Posted by Sarah of Sarah and the Goon Squad.

If you'd like to use this space to tell stories/secrets/confessions of your dangerous maternal mind, anonymously or otherwise, send me an e-mail and you too can enjoy the refuge of the Basement.

*******

Dear "Friend,"

I called you this morning and you whined "I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever call."

I just want you to know that this is the exact reason I don't call more often. I can't stand the bullshit guilt trip you try to lay on me. I realize that you cannot understand that you are not the center of the universe but I have my own life.

In fact, I have two children, a husband, two cats, a home, a job that is freelance that I have to do in between the kids freaking out and changing diapers and a social life all about 1200 miles away from you.

So if you were wondering why I don't call you anymore it is because you are too high maintenance. I don't call because I don't want to have to hear about my never calling. I don't visit because I don't want to hear about me never visiting. You stopped being a friend to
me when you became a burden. Why can't you just say "Hi. How have you been?" like all of the other people I talk to once or twice a year?

Talking to you is never a pleasure. It is draining.

You can't maintain friendships by bullying people into them.

I am done with you. I don't need the hassle.

Love,

Sarah

Is This Weird?

Posted by Anonymous.

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*******

I love my baby (ok, maybe not a baby…more like a toddler…16 months) but who doesn’t? Every mom has their struggles. Why can’t I get baby to nurse? Why won’t this kid eat anything but bananas? When do I potty train? Why? When? How? Yes I’m a new mom. Yes lots of questions. I think I’m doing a fantastic job, and so is my husband. Our son's vocabulary is amazing…he counts…he’s charming…he rarely fusses…he smiles all the time…he really is a good baby. We are lucky. That doesn’t mean life is dandy in babyville…no wait…it is.

There is just this one problem.

Said baby likes to…well…it’s embarrassing...and…see…that’s the problem…well…he…likes to…HUMP! There I said it. My kid is a humping machine.

He doesn’t hump in public, thank god. He only humps at home. He humps in the morning. He humps at night. Sometimes he humps in the afternoon. Sometimes we go days without humping. Sometimes we go days on end with humping. What triggers the humping is unknown.

HUMPING: How does he hump? Well, he lies face down on the ground and sort of gyrates up and down. There is some moaning (as I’m sure it feels good). There is some mention of names (mama, bubba, grandma, dada). He does not appreciate when you intervene on the humping. Sometimes he holds the dog’s leg and humps…dog does not appreciate this.

Yes it is embarrassing. It makes me uncomfortable when people are over and he humps. Sometimes I can see a hump coming and I’ll stop it if the wrong people are around. Sometimes it makes other people uncomfortable when he humps. I can tell…there is this look in their eyes like…”this kid is some sort of perv. Why is he humping so much?” Mostly from people who don’t have kids. He’s not old enough to understand that this is a private thing to do. So it’s difficult to know what to do. Do I stop the humping?

I’ve tried to research the topic, and what information out there is that this is a common theme within that age group. They say it is not sexual, and they do it because it just feels good. Apparently, some kids hump stuffed animals…thank god he hasn’t figured out that he can do that yet.

I can say with absolute certainty that he is not sexually abused in any way. I know who he spends time with, and rarely is he without me (I know, I know, get a social life…really I have one…we entertain). When he is, he is in very loving arms. My family, my husband, or his family would NEVER hurt him. This thought never crosses my mind, but I know it may cross yours, and that is why I mention it.

This is where you come in. I need your advice. Is this weird behaviour? Is he some sort of sex driven child? Do I talk to a doctor? Should I stop him? Would you be concerned? Does your kid hump? Basically, what are your thoughts on the whole humping situation?

Yes…I’m being serious.

When The Past Returns

Posted by Anonymous.

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*******

12 years ago, the man of my dreams left me. We had been together for 2 years and he was the one who was going to make it all happen. He was going to give me my happily-ever-after. He left me via phone.

He was the one. The one who I thought of daily for the past 12 years. The one who I longed for
soooo many years. Often wondering if he was happy, if he had gotten sent to Iraq, all of the thoughts went through my head for years.

He popped up again 9 years ago, and then popped back out. Over the years, loving him has brought me much heart ache. He's not a flake, he's not a bad man, he actually a very good man (hard to believe, I know, with all that I'm telling you.)

He came and found me again after all of this time. He tells me how much he loves me, how full he is of me! How I have been in his thoughts for so many years, dealing with the whole I fucked up so many years ago. Now he tells me all of this, now he tells me the things I have longed to hear for sooo many years. Now he tells me when i'm married with 2 kids. He's all I think about. I can still smell him. I'm driving myself mad. I have written "Dear John" letters over and over again and have yet to send one to him. Everytime I think about telling him goodbye it's as though my heart is going to crumble.

My husband's not a bad man, he's a good man, but I don't love him as I do the other. He has a temper that in the past has made me scared for my children. It's so sad to see that in black and white but it's so true. I go home and wish for time to stop so that I can get some kind of grip on the emotions swirling around in my head, and at the same time be a great mother and a
wife to the man I married.

Help me. Do I follow my heart and leave my husband? Or do I continue to run from the past and all the memories that it contains?

What's in a dream?

Posted by Anonymous.

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*******

I know that you're not supposed to write posts about your dreams, but I hope that exceptions to this rule can be made in the Basement.

I've been having dream about men other than my husband. Not sex dreams so much, though sex is sometimes involved, but dreams about being in love with other men. Not men that I know. Men that are, or seem to be, figments of my imagination. Usually I'm much younger than I am now. Sometimes I'm aware, in the dream, that I have a husband somewhere. Sometimes the dreams end badly, where I end up losing the person, getting hurt, that kind of thing. But the basic theme is always the same - meet some guy, realize that I am in love with that guy, fumble around about being in love, often have that love end badly, wake up.

I love my husband very, very much. We have a good sex life. I don't fantasize about other men, I can't imagine thinking about running off. So the dreams are weird, and they feel weird. I can't figure them out. I don't know why I have them.

It's not every night. But it's a few times a month, anyway.

I can understand about sex dreams. But love? Why love? I have love, lots of it, so why do I dream about finding it somewhere else?

Any dream analysts out there?

Does This Stroller Make Me Look Rich?

Posted by Tania (Urban_Mommy)

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*******

I’m here in the basement because I have a bone to pick with my sister and she, of course, knows of my blog. Thank God for The Basement.


I love my sister. She is one of few family members I can say that about, so I really do cherish our relationship. However. Over the years, she has become very judgmental of how I live my life. Or perhaps it is more accurate to say that when it comes to how we live our lives she has become very competitive.

When we were young, this was never an issue, we were very different so there wasn’t much to compare. But as adults, we both strive for success in love, in our careers, our lifestyle, our station.

As it turns out, I have done well in these pursuits. I have a great marriage, a fulfilling career, an interesting lifestyle and, well, as for what I am calling ‘station’, I really mean money. And yeah, I have plenty of that too. Which all seems to make my sister very pissy and disapproving.

It is, of course, her prerogative to dislike my choices. I haven’t a problem with that. What gets my goat is that she is always implying that my husband and I have somehow sold ourselves out in making certain choices, attaining certain things. She implies that one cannot possibly enjoy any job that comes with a hefty pay cheque and that having a good-paying job means that one must compromise one’s morals. It is total bullshit. By her reasoning, only low paying jobs can be rewarding, and that all low paying jobs are, because of their low pay, noble pursuits. I’ll say it again, total bullshit. Working at McDonald’s is not the same as working for Greenpeace. Low pay does not equal virtue.

Another favorite detail of my circumstance that my sister likes to judge is that my husband is really the one that makes the big cheque. (I, on the other hand, make a lucrative living, which is to say, when I work I get paid very well, but with the baby I don’t work that often.) Husband brings home the bacon, I am a SAHM/WAHM. She goes crazy with this. “When did you become so traditional?”, she asks. By which she means a backwards, anti-feminist, focus-on-the-family, twin-set-wearing dullard.

This all drives me crazy. Crazy, I tell you. Crazy! Because none of it is true. She knows perfectly well that my husband grew up in extreme poverty and for him to make a very good living doing something he absolutely loves is the best example of karma that she or I will ever witness. She also knows that he and I have ‘risked it all’ a number of times in order to stand by what we believe. As for me turning my back on my independence, she also knows, deep down, that it is not true; that I am a hard-core kind of feminist in many respects. But I have a 6-month-old baby and, call me crazy, I want to raise him for a while.

As I said, at the heart of all of this is competitiveness. I believe that she sees my happiness and success only in relation to her own. She is keeping score and any time she feels I’m pulling ahead by a large margin, she issues me demerits, herself some moral bonus points, and presto, she is back in the game.

It makes it very difficult to share my life experiences with her.

But I refuse to not talk honestly about my life. To me, if I downplay the good things then I really AM comparing myself to her. And being condescending. (Should I downplay because, you know, what I’ve got is so much better and how could she not feel bad hearing about all my fabulousness? How is this reasoning not insulting?) I refuse to do it. I don’t see why I should have to apologize or hide or dumb-down my life in order to make other people feel better about their life. I work hard for what I have. It is not a competition.

I believe that women in general feel too uncomfortable celebrating their successes. Too often we speak only about negatives – or worse, turn positives into negatives in order to talk about things openly. It is as if we feel like saying anything good about ourselves would be boasting. That is just wrong. But I think we feel this way because, really, this is how some other women - like my sister -often make us feel. And it is all because they are being competitive. And petty.

A good marriage is no small feat. Establishing yourself professionally is hard won as well. A great body, higher education, money, good kids – none of these things come easily. They should be celebrated if you can achieve them. Good on you! (For the record, I do not have a great body, I have a Bachelor of Fine Art aka Bachelor of Fuck All, some money, and the kid is in development. I’m hardly picture perfect; that is not my point.)

This topic is fresh for me right now not only because of a recent call with my sister but because I’ve seen some evidence of this attitude in recent posts and comments in the blogosphere. And I think we should call it out.

If you have a good marriage, feel free to celebrate it.

If you have great skill, training, education, go on and flex your brawn or brain.

If you’ve worked hard for your possessions and get comfort and joy from them, tell me about it.

I love to hear about rewarding love, insightful ideas and opinions, great travel, new gadgets, killer shoes, awesome strollers that glide over any surface and fold down into toothpicks. Tell me! It’s OK. I will not assume that with every sentence you utter that you are really saying that you are happier, smarter, more successful, or more beautiful than I am. Because I will realize that you are talking about you, not about me.

I wish people would just get over themselves. My sister especially.

Phew. Turned into a bit of a ranty-rant there at the end. But I feel better. Thanks!

There's a Racist in My Living Room!

Posted by Lynsalyns.

If you'd like to use this space to tell stories/secrets/confessions of your dangerous maternal mind, anonymously or otherwise, send me an e-mail and you too can enjoy the refuge of the Basement...

*******

I moved to the Midwest with the highest hopes. At last, released from the clutches of my family drama! Relieved of the images of my dead father that lingered around every corner! Free to pursue the writing life and immerse myself in a community alive with ideas flowing like a river from the high-profile university two miles from my brand-new tract home.

Alas, it was not to be. This locale has proved interesting, but not exactly as I imagined. Hey, what is? Was turning 21 all you hoped it would be? Did marriage suddenly turn your husband into Martha Stewart in a three-piece suit? How's motherhood treating you? How about those idyllic, lazy mornings breastfeeding in a beautiful negligee while your adoring spouse looks on and snaps award-winning black-and-white art photos?

But honestly, this is a little much even for me.

I was wrangling the baby for a nap when my doorbell rang this week. The woman across the street was standing on my front porch. She and her family just moved into the house right across the street and she took me up on my spur-of-the-moment comment of "stop by any time, I'm home most of the day!"

I invited her in and we proceeded to have a lovely conversation. A freelance writer! You don't say! Me, too! Kids in high school and elementary school. That's a tough move for them. Doesn't this development kind of suck?

That last discussion led to this:

"My son came home from school and said, "Mom, do you know how many white kids are in my class? One, me!" she said, looking distressed. She went on to tell me how she and her husband are requesting a variance from the neighborhood association because a four-foot fence isn't tall enough to protect her grill and patio furniture from "those people." At this she waved her hand in the direction of the apartment complex that borders our development.

Indeed, many of the folks who live there are African-American. They are families and college kids and who knows what else – you know, people who live in apartments. I lived in an apartment 11 months ago.

The apartments gave us momentary pause when we bought this place, because we'd long resided near very noisy rental housing. We swung by late one evening to find the complex as quiet as can be. The only people I even see out on their tiny balconies are kids playing with their toys.

So I didn't know what to do when confronted by this person, with these hateful opinions. So I did what any self-respecting parent would do. I leaned on my toddler like a crutch and told the woman I needed to get her into her crib for a nap, could we talk again some other time?

I wish I'd had the guts to tell her off. I wish I'd seen her to the door, announcing that her kind wasn't wanted in my house.

Instead, I sat gaping like an idiot at the racist in my living room. Perhaps it is I who needs a six-foot fence.

Burned

Posted by Laural.

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*******

I consider myself a pretty good friend. Those who are in my "inner circle," so to speak, know that I'm the kind of person who will support you in whatever you are doing, will have your back when it comes to gossip about you, and will generally throw herself into the friendship. The flip side of these qualities, though, is that once I feel close to someone it's possible to walk all over me. Or at least possible to get me to do what you want.

Need someone to go to coffee when you're upset? Call me. Need someone to listen while you talk ad nauseum about the guy you like? I'll sit there and listen. As my friends (slowly) start to get pregnant and have babies, I'm there for them. Yes, it sucks at first, let me watch your baby when you have a shower, what can I do to help.

I don't expect a ton in return.

But, what I hate - what I absolutely HATE is when friends try to talk me into having my own home business.

I'M NOT INTERESTED.

I've done the research. I've listened to the spiels. I've calculated the income. Before I went back to work I thought long and hard about selling candles or toys or kitchen products or make up (various kinds, no less). But at the end of the day I realized something - I don't want to.
Don't get me wrong. I've been a hostess. I've sold the products. I've been the person who sits and listens while you do a test demonstration. I've bought products I don't need for amounts of money I don't have.

That, to me, is being your friend. That, to me, is supporting you. Period. If you are making your millions selling candles more power to you. But I don't want to.

I like my job. I know that shocks people, but I do. I like my son being in daycare. I don't particularly want to be a stay at home mom. I'm making a high enough income that I can finally pay my bills and occassionally go out to dinner. I do not want to spend several extra hours in the week, the time that I do spend with my child, going to people's houses selling them various products.

A couple of weeks ago I got an e-mail from one of my friends. Our friendship has been off and on because it seems like she is always using me. I've tried so hard to end the friendship, bow out nicely, and only get together occassionally.

In fact, when I started work - the day I started work and sobbed the entire way in because I was leaving my baby - she sent me an e-mail telling me that I was awful for leaving my child, and if only I sold her products I would be a good parent (seriously) and my child would be better adjusted.

I got over that - and forgave her.

But then an e-mail came a couple of weeks ago. And, she said that she really misses me. Could we please get together at the mall we used to hang out at. My guilt complex kicked in immediately. And, I shot an e-mail back saying sure, the date worked, the time worked, and I would love to see her. Because I would. I like going for dinner with friends. Her son and mine are close in age. I wanted to share pictures, chat about mommy stuff, husband stuff and laugh about clothes we try on. I was, stupidly, looking forward to it.

And then the day before I got an e-mail. Also very friendly and chatty, saying that Surprise! She was just picking me up at said mall and taking me somewhere fun.

And I knew.

Just like you know when you're about to be dumped by a boyfriend. Just like when you see your boss coming at you with a scowl and a report covered in red marks. This wasn't going to be pretty. But, I didn't bail. Friends don't do that, right?

Know what we did? We went to an "event" where I sat for 3 hours being told about why I needed to run a business from home. I watched as seemingly sane people chanted about slogans and discussed cold calling.

This is what I sent to another friend about my night.

So ...

Last night. Totally dragged to the candle cult meeting.

It was BRUTAL.

Hot hot hot hotel meeting room and then they lit all of their candles.

And we had to do weird little chant things

And we shook marraccas and talked about trips to mexico

And learned how to do cold calling.

BRUTAL

And then at the end of the night I was asked to join them. In their weird candle worshipping cult. It was 3 hours of candle hell.

And I kept hearing lines like "I don't call this work. I call this fun." I was highly encouraged to quit my job and go sell candles.

At one point I cracked - when they kept telling us to illuminate our souls.

May I ask you - have you illuminated your soul?????

Have you?

For the record, my soul is not illuminated. I did not join or buy a startup kit.


My point here is this - I'm not knocking home based businesses. What I'm sick of, like completely utterly sick and tired of, is being made to feel like I will not be someone's friend if I do not sell their products.

If I stayed at home, didn't need the income I have, and wanted to make some extra money, I would do something like this. I think it's a great idea.

But I don't stay home. And I don't want to. I don't want to run my own business. And, if I did, sadly, it would not be a business where I sell a poduct I don't like. Sorry - but I hate candles. I never buy them. I don't really like putting out fancy knick knacks and I would never spend $85 on a little arrangement for the table. Sorry. I've said that a million times to her. I don't care about burn time. I don't care about the latest scents. I'm kind of afraid of fire.

And, I don't want to be made to feel like a lesser mom or person because I'm not interested.

All I'm saying is back off. Please. I support you. I'm your friend. But, if that isn't good enough, then enough is enough.

Re-Birth(day)

Posted by Debi from Southern California.

If you'd like to use this space to tell stories/secrets/confessions of your dangerous maternal mind, anonymously or otherwise, send me an e-mail and you too can enjoy the refuge of the Basement...

*******

September 13th I was lucky enough to celebrate my son's one year birthday. Such a happy day. During the "Happy Birthday" singing, the opening of presents, and the cake smashing I secretly began to mourn. I began to mourn the beginning of what turned out to be the darkest period in me and my son's life - a time of pain, fear, depression, and ultimately hope.

I suffered through the beginnings of motherhood like any new mom. The unbelievable nipple pain, the hemorrhoids, the swelling, the lack of sleep. I suffered well. I believed it was a small price to pay for a such a new life. After about two weeks, though, everything changed. The baby would not stop crying. He finished nursing - he cried. He tried to sleep - he cried. You put him down - he cried. You held him - he cried. He would not stop crying. I could not stop crying. He didn't sleep. I didn't sleep.

I begged him to stop crying. I asked him, "Please, just tell mommy what to do and I will do it if it will make you stop crying!" One day I thought, "I bet if I threw him in the pool, he would stop crying." Later I thought, "If I drive the car off the road, I bet the crying would stop." I had pills. If I took them, I wouldn't have to hear the crying.

After a few trips to the doctor and a few mis-diagnoses (acid reflux and/or allergy to my breastmilk) and one trip to get an x-ray for a distended stomach, I got the phone call. "Your son has a massive tumor in his abdomen. Drive to Children's Hospital, room 124 immediately." He was six weeks old. I was alone in the house, it was 10:30 pm on October 25, 2005. I apologized over and over again to my baby for what was happening to him. "Mommy didn't mean to give you a tumor. Mommy didn't mean to think about killing you." "Mommy is sorry for everything."
Two days later, my son was reborn. He came out of surgery without a one pound softball-sized tumor in his abdomen. It was cancer, but the chances looked good. My baby began to get better and I crept ever so slowly into a deep depression. This wasn't how I pictured motherhood. I wasn't prepared to deal with cancer. NOBODY TOLD ME I WAS GOING TO HAVE TO DEAL WITH MY SON HAVING CANCER. I was angry. I yelled at my husband. It was his fault, it was my fault, it was our fault. I was so angry and what was happening and I had nowhere to put my anger.

I sought help. The first therapist helped me to try and get over the cancer fear. For the most part, it worked. She did not, however, treat my marriage problems and my depression. We tried to be a family. I thought about divorcing him since he was no help anyway. I realized that was unfair to all of us. I still loved him. I needed him.

We moved to be closer to my family and the hospital in case we ever needed to go through chemo. The move helped. I was back in my old neighborhood, with friends and family close by. We started going to marriage counseling to try and pick up the pieces of a broken life. It's working. And after eight longs months of suffering through depression, I started on Lexapro and it's saving my life.

The reason I was unable to fully be happy on my son's birthday is the terrible sadness I feel when I think about what he and I lost. We lost our happy beginning. Our beginning together as mother and son was a total disaster and I can't ever get that time back to him. I can't take away the awful pain he must have felt for those six terrible weeks. For myself, I mourn the lost of a normal introduction into motherhood. I look around at all my friends who are new moms and I realize, "They don't share my experience - I can't relate to theirs." It's a lonely existence. I will not have any more children because I'm afraid of those first six weeks.

So, I look forward to October 27th. A day that gave me back my son. A baby that smiled for the first time in the hospital. A baby that was held by a family member, 24 hours a day, for over a week in the hospital. A baby that spent his first Halloween hooked up to monitors with a tube down his nose. A baby that does not cry any more.


You can meet Jack over at Jack Attack.

Know this feeling?

Posted by Anonymous (as always, no relation to previous Anonymous posters.)

If you'd like to use this space to tell stories/secrets/confessions of your dangerous maternal mind, send me an e-mail and you too can enjoy the refuge of the Basement...

*******

I used to say, "I love children"....What I have found is this: I love my own children. I don't necessarily love all children. All children are just not loveable. A lot of children that I encounter are not even likeable. I am thinking of a few children right now who really get on my freaking nerves. Thanks for letting me vent.

Thoughts on Love

Posted by Anonymous, in response to this prompt.

As always, if you'd like to use this space to tell stories/secrets/confessions of your dangerous maternal (or paternal!) mind, send me an e-mail and you too can enjoy the refuge of the Basement...

**********

What is so hard for me is separating the ACT OF LOVE which brought the child, first to my womb, then to my arms. People often "freak out" when I tell them that labor, for me, was the opposite of making love. Same force, same irrisistible urge, same relief - in the reverse. From there it is not so unnatural for me to want to taste her skin- she was made from the act of love which was us and so, yes, there is such a fine line which can be easily misconstrued...

I read recently, also, that fear breeds love...it binds us to that which we hold in awe. For me, that applies here, since I am bound to my child by the fear of what I do not know, the awe of visible evidence of the original act of our love...

Kissing her lips and having her gooey lips attempt to kiss me back reminded me where it all started. Holding her to my breast caused a shudder of elation, putting her down brought a flood of pain. I find it interesting that some parents don't share this same primal love... When I say that I have a physiological NEED to be with my children, I get looks. I need to touch them, even if it is (as it often is with the older ones) to brush them away in the busyness of the moment, I need that touch, they need that touch.

I also read somewhere that perhaps rapists as a group were subjected to inordinate lack of touch. I don't remember where I read it, it has been so long (and bearing six children pushed my memory to the farthest limit).

My favorite thing right now is to run my nose along their little cheekbones and ears and smell the scent of baby hair and kiss the backs of their necks. My husband doesn't seem to notice-- he gets plenty from me! Besides, I think he knows I find my children addicting. I am addicted to holding them, being one with them like I was when they were part of ME. I don't find it easy to let go...

Saying it out loud feels goooood

Posted by Anonymous.

As always, if you'd like to use this space to tell stories/secrets/confessions of your dangerous maternal (or paternal!) mind, send me an e-mail and you too can enjoy the refuge of the Basement...

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For the past two years my DH has been involved with helping start a new Cub Scout program in our itty bitty town. He did make it through Eagle Scouts and was the only parent/leader that actually was in the Scouts as a child growing up. Did that count for anything with the Cub Master? Oh hell no. For the past two years we have been putting up with her running it HER way and only HER way. And she has absolutely NO EXPERIENCE doing this. We have put up with her hanging the phone up on him simply because he questioned her about the # of pizza's she was planning to order. For two years we put up w/ her getting angry and bullistic about issues as small as that. Seriously.

Even though my DH is the Webolos leader, has done all the training, does his research both in the materials given and online... according to her… he is NEVER right.

DH and I were arguing every week after every meeting about what was said/done/ implied. I can take only so many rants and begged for us to go elsewhere w/ our son. Being the good and oh so stubborn man he is, he stuck to it. Week after week. So figuring I couldn't win that way, I tried to make friends with this woman, outside of Scouts. Turns out we do have some in common and I openly and honestly talked to her about how and what my dh was thinking. He's far too polite to say these things to her. Guess who's not? he he

I joined the blessed council at the beginning of this summer, volunteered and tried to write newsletters. I really shouldn't be so surprised that that didn't fly. She took mine, said something about spelling, and wrote her own. And, oh my, was it bad. I called her on it. And that's how I got to spend a peaceful summer this year without talking to her but once a month.

Before our first council meeting this weekend I again begged my dh to let us go somewhere else. I felt it coming. During that meeting we all got a FIVE minute lecture on how if we didn't like how things were done... to leave. She wasn't subtle, folks. Her philosophy? That no boy in her scouts… (and she calls them all "her boys") should ever have their feelings hurt. ALL craft projects had to be done w/ ALL the dens. Because she doesn't want them to feel left out. That her "boys" would not be going by the book because of that.

My son is mentally disabled, 10 yrs old w/ mentality and emotions of a five year old... and he already knows that there are things he can't yet do, no hard feelings and we move on. He already is treated differently by his peers and etc. He doesn't need to be babied quite that much! Nor do any of the other boys, in my opinion. It's a part of growing up.

The second lecture in this meeting was honesty and how leaders are to represent that. And then she goes " "DH" that means you cannot fudge the points for any kid in your den" and I was WTF??? He's the best leader they have and would never cheat and in fact has had parents resent him for that very fact!!!

We didn't agree with anything that was said during that meeting. DH tried to get his opinion and suggestions in. They were all shut down, ignored... but those were the two biggies to me.

After coming home from that meeting I couldn't even talk to him about it… as he was still willing to try while in my head I was thinking no way in hell.

Monday rolls around and she calls me. I wasn't really intending to discuss Scouts with her, but I had my last button pushed.

Me: You need to tell me...was that lecture directed at just us? Do you want us to leave?
Her: Well your dh and I never agree and blah blah blah
Me : (I interrupt, I know this spiel by heart) You and hubby do not communicate well...
Her: I am so tired of hearing this shit and I won't anymore

Click.

Yup once again she hangs up before anyone can explain anything because she's always right.

When dh got home last night I told him that we were not going back there again ever. Period. No more discussion we're done. After he figured out why, he finally agreed. I don't know who irritates me more at this point. I asked him how he wanted to do this… him call her or me. He decided me. I'm the bitch and he knows it lol.

So today I called her… and I started with an apology... it wasn't my intention to hurt her (I'm a libra ) and what did she say?

She yelled GOOOOOOOOOOOD.

WTF?

I said ok then Kevin and I are out. You've asked us to leave and...

… Again with the yelling of GOOOOOOOOOOOOD because I'm so tired of....

I interrupt and still I don't yell, I have kids in the house...

I also want you to know that I will always be entitled to my opinion.

And that I never want to speak to you again.

Click.

Not the best come-back. Still pissed because I couldn't or didn't do better. Then I sat and cried. And cried. I thought that outside of Scouts she was an ok friend. I don't have all that many friends… as I don't trust. And she had gained some of my trust. And I don't know why this is so upsetting and my feelings are so hurt when in all honesty a huge STRESS has been removed from my life.

I know some of this is guilt… my dh loves the Scouts and what they stand for. This was his hobby not mine. And when this woman wasn't at the meetings? He had an awesome time. I tried so hard to respect that. Yet I will never allow him near that pack or that woman again.

My dh and I are taking son to a new program and we have a bet. That within two months… all those boys from this pack... will be right there with us.

The tears are gone now. I realize that I haven't lost a friend, as she was never that in the true sense to me. She only got some of trust and some of my loyalty which will now hopefully go to a more worthy person. (Can you tell I've had therapy? rofl)

However I did send her this because I just have to have the last word:


And you believe I have a hard time with forgiving and controlling my rage?

Think about that for a second. I called to sincerely apologize for what popped out of my mouth yesterday. I'm human. I assumed you were also my friend and an adult and that after letting me apologize that you would stop yelling.

I also want to thank you. I've been trying to pull "dh" out of this crap for over a year. But he's a good guy, he made a commitment. He cares and DID compromise and do it your way last year. He, however, is also entitled to an opinion and only hoped that you would listen and then TALK with him about decisions.

Me? Well I can't tell you how glad I am that this stress will no longer be in my life. I am not a social person. I am not what you would call a Christian, and am extremely liberal. I'm just not your kinda people. I accepted that many moons ago. I have bitten my tongue, and have really not told you all my negative thoughts, criticisms, feelings and etc. as I knew and now know for sure... that you’re not capable of handling it.

Now it's time to say good bye, which is always hard for me. You see, like you, I want people to always like me... I just don't try nearly as hard as you do.

But you know what else, you are very right in feeling and thinking

GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD!

(end of e-mail)

I highly doubt that she will ever respond to that. So putting it here… well kind gives me a wicked sense of satisfaction and yes, that may be evil and selfish. But it makes me feel oh soooooooooo gooooooooooood!

Don't Lower My Worth

Posted by Anonymous.

As always, if you'd like to use this space to tell stories/secrets/confessions of your dangerous maternal (or paternal!) mind, send me an e-mail and you too can enjoy the refuge of the Basement...

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There comes a time in every woman's life when she is forced to realize the truth. And in truth, what she finds is something she herself covered with layers of paint to hide its ugliness.

Upon hearing the compliment, "your daughter's speech is astounding," my husband quickly explained she'd been with his mother for a week. "She's an English teacher."

It doesn’t matter that his daughter's mother -– his wife, I might add --is a writer, nor does it matter that her daycare provider of the last two and a half years is a former English teacher as well. It doesn’t even take into account his daughter has some talents of her own.

"Well, I'm an English teacher," responds a blinking babysitter, just to make him squirm a little. After all, she knows he often speaks before he thinks. "I probably didn't have anything to do with it. And, you know, your wife has a better vocabulary than mine. I'm sure her influence hasn't left a mark."

He didn't bite, he just sucked.

"You are? An English Teacher? Oh … well. … Yeah, but my mom has a PhD."

The comment, relayed after the fact, sent me hurtling back to the movie "Party Girl," a film that introduced me to Parker Posey and a lithe, snide Holly Golightly of the '90s that I wanted to be.

It's the scene where Posey's character, Mary, dumps her boyfriend, Nigel, played by Liev Schreiber, for urinating in her shower.

Her explanation to him is elegant: "You lower my worth."

It occurs to me now just how often he lowers my worth. How often he lowers the worth of all women who didn't singled-handedly raise boys while getting themselves a higher degree than even he ever aspired to attain.

And I think to myself: "I bet he pisses in the shower, too."