I curse therefore, I am.

So what?

But, Kate got me ta thinkin'. She is trying very hard to curb her colorful language and I think that's a great idea. For her. I see her points about cursing in front of the kids and I wish her all the luck in the world. I admire her for admitting she has to try to stop. I know it will be difficult because I have a mouth like a drunken, pirate hooker. I do. Big D thinks I do it to get a rise out of him. I really don't.

Some say it's a lack of vocabulary skills, I disagree. I have a fantastic vocabulary and I am a phenomenal speller (not typer).

Others would argue that foul language is a bad example for children. I can agree, somewhat. I mean I didn't curse at or in front of my past students and I try hard to curb my expletives in front of other people's kids. I slip up occasionally, but not usually. But, it's not my job to teach other kids how to curse...let their parents do it.

When I'm home or comfortable or just being 'me'. I swear, I curse, I use foul language. I do.

Fa hears it. I feel a tad bit bad for it, for a split-second. She is young and impressionable and hears Every-Thing! She repeats things. Then, we giggle. We igonore it. We say that Mommy says bad things and she shouldn't. But it's me, and I can't help it. And it really is funny to hear her say "R crapped in his crate again." or "We hafta throw my shit in the toilet."

When I am in public, she sometimes asks if she could "touch my bosoms" because we always say "Don't touch Ma' Bosoms!" when we are joking around. We laugh. I "bite her arse" and play "babbaloo on her bum". She breaks out in hysterics. We use 'funny' language as a tension release when she is tantrumming and I say; "Aw, cut the crap!" She cracks up.

When I'm mad I say, "oh shit" or "fuck!" or "Damnit to all that is hell" or even "Your mother's balls". When I am happy I say; "hell yeah" or "Hot damn" or "Wholly fuck" I have even been known to say; "Shit on my rake and call me Uncle" or "Slap my monkey and call him Shitburger" or my all time favorite "Balls"... We pee ourselves with hysterics. When someone cuts me off on the road, I call him an asshole or a prick. I may even give him the finger. Well, what else should I say? "Oh, snufflepuffs, you cut me off dear lad...I'm so sorry sir, was I in your way? I promise not to ever be in your lane ever again." (fucking shit head) That pisses me off. Oh wait, I'm sorry, That really burns my britches. Is that better? It may sound better to your average prude but I don't talk that way, and Fa will know the difference.

Cursing is so benign in the grand scheme of things. There are other worse things I could be doing. Crack comes to mind. Cursing lets us laugh and be silly. It helps to get out emotions. It lets each other know we mean business.

Admit it, home is where we can be ourselves. Fa has to learn that there is a time and a place for everything. This goes for kissing, hugging, arguing, cursing and even farting...another joy in life. She has to know that she can't call her teacher a fuckface just because she is one. Face it. When someone says "fuck you, fucker" it stings. Words hurt, curse words too. So she needs to be taught the acceptable platforms that allow you use such language. She needs to learn when and where to use these colorful words.

We learn to be polite, to hold back, to speak our minds. We learn not to pick our noses, we learn not to eat with our hands. We also should learn curse etiquette. I curse at home. I also use other ways to express joy, anger and sorrow. But cursing just feels good. I curb my tongue out of the house only because others have this mentality that 'cursing is bad' or 'cursing is evil' and I am raising the 'froo-its of evil' by cursing in front of her. C'mon. I learned when to curse (from my mother), so will she. My mother also taught me about "the birds an the bees" with a very cut and dry demeanor. That's for another post. Stay tuned.

Fa's only going to be 3 but she hasta learn some time. Should I wait until she's in school and some shitty kid is cursing at her and totally freaking her out? No, I'll arm her with some witty comebacks, good vocabulary and a little colorful language to spark things up and if any little prick decides to be mean, she'll put them right in their place. It will take trial and error. I'll probably get some phone calls from school. Then I'll meet with with principal and tell her that we do have alternative ways to express ourselves and Fa and I will work on them. And on my way out of the office I'll call her a douchebag under my breath. I truly believe that cursing is a way of life. My life especially. And if Fa decides she hates foul language, than more power to her.

We should embrace colorful words and let cursing be. The more we try to hide it, the more taboo it becomes and then Fa will really be looking for ways to use it. Now, I'm not going to be able to keep her away from all things taboo. I know that. And I surely wouldn't give her drugs or teach her how to inhale to show her the dangers of drug addiction. But, I will have to teach her about healthy choices and making smart decisions. Is cursing such a bad decision?

Oh, Fuck it!

"Taming the Beast" by Emily Maguire

I just finished reading it a few days ago. I'm not much for writing book reviews but I somehow feel compelled.

This novel is about a young girl who gets into irresponsible situations with men because her High School English teacher destroyed her innocence. He basically took advantage of her as a child by using literature as his weapon to seduce her. Then, he left her. While he was gone, she went into this "finding what she lost phase" with all of these different derelicts. Eight years later, the shithead teacher comes back to her, with new insight to his mental state. He quickly begins pulling her down into this torrent of sexual delinquency.

Throughout the entire book, you root for this damaged soul to escape from the life of sexual cruelty posed against her. She tries to escape, but just doesn't make it. What a disappointment. The ending of the book was such a let down that I almost cried. Not because she didn't make it out of that life, but because I don't know if she ever makes it out of there. I guess Ms. Maguire is either a fantastic writer or just missing something. I still can't figure it out. I wanted this female protagonist to emerge from her circumstance successful. I just don't know what happens to her. It just kind of ends right in the middle of her turmoil. Did I miss something? Am I supposed to create and alternate ending? Will there be a part two? I'm not sure.

The writing in this novel is rich and descriptive, almost to a fault. I mean, I really didn't need all that sexual detail...A little left to the imagination would be nice. True, I'm all for 'dirty books' and all and sexual content can be a treat. I am no prude, that's for sure. However, it was quite disturbing at most junctures in the book. The things she endured, Christ. It was unreal.

All in all it was a page turner. Which is why I was so disappointed in the end. I am sure however, that I will reach for another Emily Maguire book when I see it on the shelves. I am a sucker for a page turner. And I will continually hope that her other books have complete endings.

Interested?

31 Months

Fa is 31 months today. July 20th. It seems like yesterday I brought her home from the hospital...the both of us crying and unsure of what to do next.

Now, she's just such a joy in my life and those initial, unsure moments have passed me by. I can't believe I ever felt the way I did back then. I was so sad and scared and afraid of what might happen to her that I couldn't enjoy the 'moment'. I had severe PPD. I was a mess. I thought I was the only one who ever felt that way and I thought I would die. I wanted to die. I didn't want to be a mommy. I wasn't good enough to be her mommy. She deserved more than I could ever give. I wrote a letter to American Baby in response to an article I read a few months ago...they never published it. But I want to put it here. So someone else can read it. Not just me.

August 5, 2005

Dear American Baby,

I just finished reading your article: (left blank) in your August 2005 issue…and I cried. Not because I remember it happening like that, or because I miss those times, but because my first three months were nothing like the article. I had Post Partum Depression and I would have given anything to have those “new mommy” issues that the author had instead of the ones I had. I want to tell you my story because I also took notes, but I really don’t need to refer to them, I will never forget how I felt when my daughter was born.

Day one:
The day my daughter was born was when I began crying. I felt like my heart was ripped out of my chest and I could not breathe. It took me nine months to get used to having that little being inside of me. I depended on feeling her kick, hiccup, and move around at all hours of the night but nobody warned me that I would not have the same amount of time to get used to the fact that she WASN’T in there anymore. A part of my being, my reason for breathing.

The night she was born, I missed her so greatly that it felt like the loss of my mother all over again. I cried the entire time I was in the hospital. To top it all off, it was around Christmastime and the hospital was short staffed and short tempered. One nurse yelled at me because I called for help to go to the bathroom even after my allotted “two times” to make sure my bladder was functioning. I told her I couldn’t do it and she yelled, “Are you going to need to hold hands every time you go? What are you going to do when you leave here? How are you going to take care of the baby?” Good question. I wanted MY mommy. She wasn’t there. I was alone. I felt it from the first second my daughter was taken from me.

Day three:
Taking her home from the hospital was a different story. Like the author of the article, I sat in the back of the car with my daughter too. However, I was praying deep down in my soul for my husband to crash on the LIE so I wouldn’t have to live anymore. Once we were safely in the house, we stared at her for what seemed like an eternity and I hoped her parents would come and pick her up because I was done with her.

Breast feeding was a nightmare, I had no one to help me figure it out and my nipples were cracked, bleeding and literally falling off, so I had to stop. The hospital promised a lactation consultant who never showed up. I was devastated. I felt like a failure and a horrible person because all I wanted to do was see my daughter’s face from that special angle that no one else would ever see. Instead, I fed her the bottle hoping she would choke, this way it wouldn’t be my fault.

Day four:
I also figured out that at 32 years old, I was afraid of the dark. I hated being alone at night with her because that was when the thoughts and visions would be the clearest. I had thoughts of people breaking into the house and killing us all. I would see my daughter being sucked up by a chainsaw or lawnmower and I could not stop it, nor did I really want to. I never did anything to hurt her and I never would, even at my darkest, (I would rather have killed myself) but those visions were scary and made me very unsure of my sanity. I felt like I was losing my mind and my sense of reality. I wanted to die. I wanted to escape, run away and never see her again. I wasn’t good enough for her.

Week two:
The day my husband went back to work was when I realized I needed help. He was afraid to leave me alone with our daughter and most of all I didn’t want to be left alone. I was afraid she would get hurt and I couldn’t save her. I was afraid to drive in the car with her alone and I was afraid to leave the house even to go for a walk with her. What if someone kidnaps her, or me? I was afraid of her! She knew more than I ever would or could. I would look into her eyes and ask for her forgiveness because she got stuck with me as a mommy. I promised her I would find her a better mommy and one day she would understand why I left.

I started comparing my mother’s life to my own. I had my daughter the same time my mother had me. However, my mom died 17 years later and I started thinking that was my fate as well. I wondered what it was all for, if I was going to leave my daughter in 17 years like my mother did. Or sooner. Was it worth it? She really didn’t need me around at all, I thought. Just get it over with and let her live a fairly normal life without me….Mike would re-marry and she would have a person who could really take care of her… She was better off without me. That went on for a few weeks until I finally broke down. I didn’t want anything to happen to her. I didn’t want anything to happen to me because without me, she would be a motherless daughter like I am now. I didn’t want to live like that anymore. I didn’t want her to ever suffer the pain of losing a mother, like I have.

Week three:
Unlike the author, I didn’t join a mommy group because I was sure I was crazy and no one has ever thought of the things I think about. They’ll surely have me arrested or put away somewhere and take my daughter away from me. Not one mommy out there could possible feel the way I do. They are not in my head and they will never understand me. Those mommies are all living in a dream. It can’t really be as easy as they make it look. What’s wrong with me?

Week six:
I called my OB/GYN and told him my story. He referred me right away to a psychiatrist. I went to see him that same day. He prescribed Wellbutrin for the depression and Klonopin for the anxiety. I resisted but knew there was no other choice. I was going to hurt myself, not my daughter and I needed to fix things. It was a slow recovery. Aside from the physical aspects of childbirth, the mind can play fantastic tricks on you. Physically, I was a wreck. My body was not healing quickly and I had issues down below that no woman should ever deal with. It was scary. I felt useless and helpless and motherless and with medication, I was finally ready to be the mother that my daughter needed me to be.

Nineteen months later:
I thank the stars above that I used what little courage there was left to make me take a step in the right direction. My daughter is a well adjusted, active toddler and I couldn’t live without her. She is the air I breathe. My husband has been my rock because without his strength, I couldn’t find my own to help myself. I realized I wasn’t totally alone. I had people to help me and I had support when I needed it. I am forever grateful for my husband to teach me about life and love and motherhood.

I hope this letter helps just one woman out there who might be feeling a little the way I did. It is normal and not everyone has sparkly and bright experiences when they take their child home for the very first time. It is unbelievably scary and no one is truly prepared for what is to come. Especially when the crying, the diapers, and the all-nighters are the easiest things to deal with, compared to the visions, thoughts, and terrible fears you can have as a new mom.

Please use this letter if it helps just one woman out there. I know I went through such horrible experiences and I’m sure they are hard to read just as they are hard to share, but it would all be in vain if I did not help someone because of it.

Sincerely,
me

***No one has ever read this before. I am not sure I want it out there. But it seems fitting to compare myself now to then. I was so lost and I felt so alone. But I got through it and I look at my gorgeous Fa now and I cry. She is the heart that beats inside of me and the air that keeps me alive. Without her, I am nothing. Without her, I will die. I truly live for her smile and to see the joy in her eyes when I enter her room first thing in the morning. As happy as she is to see me, I am overjoyed to see her. I love this little girl with all of my being and I cherish every moment with her...even the first scary moments. For without them, we wouldn't be here today. My big girl. My love. My heart.

I have homework.

My therapist thinks I need to practice being in uncomfortable confrontations. I disagree, but I'd never confront her on it.

You see, when I get mad. I clam up. If you know me and I'm not speaking, you know I'm mad. You might never find out why, we just might stop talking. If you are my husband or my father, you might eventually find out why I'm mad. But you'll really have to dig for info.

Whenever my husband and I fight it's because I stop talking to him over somthing that might have happened a week ago. Then, I fester. Then, he gets pissed and asks me why I'm mad. Then, I start to cry and it usually ends there. See, I'm okay with letting it out, once I'm ready. But I ALWAYS break down into a ball of sappy hysterics. I can't confront anyone without crying. That's my real problem. Once I muster up the courage to spill it, I weep. Not just tears, mind you. Hyperventilating hysterics. Crying that hurts your nose because its so clogged with mucous. Crying that makes it impossible to utter words. Crying that makes your eyeballs bulge for three days afterwards. Like a spaz.

I am getting better with my husband. It's the other people in my life that I can't confront. The problem? I always get caught off guard by the unexpected stupidity and I fall short for a smart retort. Then, hours later, I think. "Shit, I shoulda said..." But it's too late. I am forever thinking of good "comebacks" or "defenses" hours after the fact. I can't very well bring it up then, it's over...the stupidity has washed away like the shoreline from the ocean tide. However, I am then left to fester; to wallow in my own silence. To continue to think, "Why didn't I just frickin say...."

So, my homework is to practice. Because, after all, practice makes perfect. So loogout everyone. If I get my panties worked up enough you might be in for it, 12 hours after the initial confrontation. Better late than never. You might not even know why I'm pissed, but once I gather my thoughts, I'll let you know.

Wishful thinking, I'm sure. But at least I'm confronting the fact that I need to practice. Right?
Chalk one up for me in the practice department.

Give that girl a cracker...

Ok, so Fa is napping and I am indulging in some useless television for a change. I'm watching America's Next Top Model. That skinny chick just friggin' fainted, right on television! What the hell? I love the way no one does anything to help her. It turns out to be some sorta condition...*wink*wink*nudge*nudge*...you can't fool me, she's frickin' hungry. Come on, what if she's on the runway and frickin' drops down for the count?

What is it about these women? Why do they hafta be so friggin' skinny? Shouldn't they hafta eat to keep going, or do they do nothing all day but pout? I guess it doesn't take up too many calories to do that. And why am I sooo friggin' jealous of them anyway? I'd like to see them staying at home with a 2 and a half year old all day, dealing with tantrums and potty training. They'd eat something to keep them going then. Damnit. I better stop watching T.V.