That's what they were made for

Although I rarely sing the praises of any politician, I find I must holla for a presidents wife!
Thank you, Michelle Obama!
Why, you ask? Because she's pushing for tax breaks for nursing mothers.
Because she's on board with the Breast is Best campaign.
Now, let me begin with a simple disclaimer. If your titties couldn't produce enough milk, or your baby needed special formula, or you just made the choice to bottle feed, I still applaud you.
Why? (Again with the question!)
Because being a mama is hard enough without someone telling your that you are feeding your baby the wrong stuff, that your baby won't bond with you if you give it a bottle, that you are making an inferior choice.
I will not look down on a mama who doesn't nurse, for whatever reason, because I"m pretty blasted sure I'm doing something else that is wrong as a parent and I hate the nana-nana-boo-boo bitchiness that pervades motherhood enough as is.
But I am thrilled to see a push for more BFing education, help paying for supplies (pumps are expensive), and a mandated room to pump in workplaces that isn't a toilet stall.
I am a lactivist. I nursed/pumped for all three of my babies and, even though my boobs aren't once what they were (I think they are heading south to reach Rio and get some much needed rest and relaxation), and I would do it again in a heartbeat.
i donated milk to a milk bank because I had too much. Because I do believe its liquid gold and could help another mama out.
As for me and my family, we will serve the boob.
But I refuse to be militant about it for anyone but me.
It was my choice to nurse, my choice to whip out lefty to nurse a hungry baby. It was not, however, my choice to flash people. That was my child's choice, and I'm sure the people who saw my orangutan titties are scarred to this day.
It was my choice to pump and freeze and cart a torture device whose sole function was to drag my boobs across the room several times a day.
It was my choice, and, I know in my heart, it was the right one for me and mine.
So, I salute Mrs. Obama, just like I salute mothers everywhere who are making the best choice for their children.
And even though this milk goat is dry, my body still knows the feel of a hungry baby, held to my breast, and knows my bodies response was how it was intended to be.
For me.
For mine.
We will worship the boob.

V-day

Sixteen years ago today, The Man got down on one knee and asked me to marry him.
(He also got me a really great dog that day as a gift. The dog may have been the best part of the arrangement!)
At nineteen, I had no idea what that meant, but I was in (lust) love and said yes.
After only two months of dating.
Eight months after that,we were married.
Sixteen years later, we have three kids, a couple of mortgages, jobs, and a life that I would never have dreamed of when I uttered that one little word.
Truthfully, I don't' remember saying yes. I think I said, "Well, you know the answer." So do I get a buy week on that since I didn't' actually say yes?
People thought we were crazy.
We were.
People thought we were too young.
We were that, too.
People thought we wouldn't last.
And we've proven every damned one of them wrong, time and again.
I remember talking with The Man before we said our "I do's" and telling him I didn't believe in divorce.
I still don't.
Even though, many times over the years, walking away would have been easier than staying together.
Especially after our miscarriage, when he was deployed to Cuba for a year right after our loss, I could have walked away.
So could he.
But we'd made a choice sixteen years ago to commit our lives to each other, and committed we have stayed.
I was lucky enough to have both of my parents, married, grossly in love (Eew! Parent love!) as a guide. I had grandparents who'd been married since time began as a template to build from.
I had the foundation to grow from.
And like happy little weeds with no sense, we've shoved down roots, holding together the cracks with sheer will, and producing some pretty dandelions that will eventually use us as a framework for their own relationships.
I will not wax poetic this Valentine's Day. But I will say it was the beginning of my true life, my adult life, the first step to turning into the woman I am today--a type A control freak, yes, but a married type A control freak, damn it!
And I still say my beloved Chi dog, Tequila, was the best part of the deal.
Well, after the heathens.
But definitely before The Man.
Happy Valentines Day to The Man, who still chooses to walk this path with me, sometimes lost, occassionally confused, always ready to drag me off into another adventure whether or not I'm ready to go.
And to my beloveds, Bug, Boo, and Punk. You are my hearts, walking around and breathing new life into me. You are, quite simply, love.

On the edges

For the past week, the heathens have been out of school thanks to that b**** of a snow storm we got last week and her cousin Bertha whose coming to stay tonight.
While I love my children dearly, I'm ready for them to go back to school.
Now.
Really.
Goodbye.
But since the universe isn't listening (I guess she turned her hearing aids off, the old bat!), I've been forced to watch my children without much interruption for a week.
Through my liquor induced haze (really! How did you think I was surviving!) I have come to realize that my babies are turning into people.
And damn, they are interesting!
I learned that both Bug and Boo can read. Simple words, yes, but they have taken a very big step into my world, the world of books, and words, and creativity, and oh my! And while they aren't going to break open "War and Peace" any time soon, Boo has been carrying around books that ten year olds read and giving it a whirl.
Makes a mama's heart soar to hear him say he's reading a book and he has to take his book with him.
I even had to laugh when he chastized me for losing his place.
My daughter is running our house with the military effeciency unique to my midget girl.
When you call her, she asks, "What do you want me for?"
When she doesn't want to do something, she poliutely refuses, then lets lose a bloodcurdling scream if you insist. I don't know about you, but having my hair brushed at least once a day is kind of a good thing, but it evades my daughter. She would rather let it go ala natural, curls matted against her head, unable to see out of the rat's nest she calls hair.
She is corralling my boys where she wants them to be, using feminine wiles, threats, tears, and downright bullying until they submit.
And when she wants something? "I'm a big girl. I'm three, ya know?"
And when she doesn't? "I'm too little!"
This week, although exhausting, has been a fascinating social experiement between me and my chimps.
I have learned so much just by simple observation, by hanging at the edges (because it's safer there) and watching my offspring in their natural environment in an unnatural event.
Just call me Jane Goodall.

Trapped

Help me.
I'm trapped.
I can't escape.
And they are watching me.
Help me . . .please!
I am entombed in my house thanks to a b*tch of a snow storm that just won't blow and go.
And I'm trapped with my three children and a husband, all of whom are bored, all of whom are driving me to the point of climbing in a car and risking the roads.
So far at least 12 inches of snow, and they are not the man inches, if ya know what I mean.
I have gotten out and walked around my house, up to my derriere, just to escape.
Add to that PMS that just won't quit and something's gotta give.
I'm thinking about throwing all of them in a snow bank and locking the doors.
I'm considering burying myself in a snow bank and taking a nap.
I love my kids. The Man . . . let me get back to you on that one.
But I'm channeling my inner Bette Midler in a "From a Distance" moment.
From a distance, you don't look like you have snot running down your lip.
From a distance, I can't hear you shrieking in range at your brother.
From a distance, my world is peaceful and no one is about to get thumped.
Unfortunately, thanks to a p*ssed off Mother Nature, I can't get any distance and I'm seeing it all up close, personal, and its ugly.
I'm gonna figure out how to make some snowshoes out of something and I'm outta here.

Sounds

Today I am hidingsitting in my bedroom listening to the sounds my children make as they play.
I hear dinosaur roars, children's yells and laughter, and cars racing across hardwood floors.
I feel myself soaking it up, because, for the moment, it is the sound of joy.
It is another layer of emotion plastered onto the walls of this old house.
Normally my Sunday's involve a quick trip to the store, laundry for the week, stripping beds and making dinner.
Today I'm still tackling laundry, but I pushed the rest aside just to be.
Yesterday, it was over seventy degrees in Oklahoma at the end of January. It was a day of bliss in the midst of winter.
The Man took the children and ran them, played with them, and let them take the edge off their spring fever.
I had a day of unadulterated silence.
I got a pedicure--the first time since pre Punk.
I drank an iced coffee just because.
I finished a good book without interruption.
I putzed around our house and added a few new pictures to the walls.
When I was pregnant, it was called nesting. Now, its a form of meditation.
And with this kind, my back doesn't ache and my knees haven't locked up from sitting cross legged on the floor.
Although I love winter and the fresh coldness of it, yesterday was a gift, a chance to renew my soul, a chance to push open the windows and really breathe.
And, like a drowning woman, I did. Great gulping breaths that recharged my spirit and left me feeling sated and replete.
I now can hear my children without thinking how loud they are, how heavy their footfalls are as they pound across our floor. I can now hear the nuances of their childhood and understand that, in this moment, it is good.

Introspection

There are days I wonder why life can't be as easy for us as it is for other people.
(And, yes, I throw a pity party and stomp my feet. I'm allowed. My old debate teacher told me I could pout for five minutes before I had to shake it off an move on. This is my five minutes.)
The Man and I try to live an ethical life. We try to help people out. we go to work daily. We pay our bills. We raise our children in the best way we can.
But nothing ever comes easy.
We have been trying since October to sell our rental place. We kept it until it had served its purprose, not making any money on it, just letting a woman I thought was a friend live there and paying enough to cover the house payment and insurance.
Not only did she leave, thumbing her nose at us as she went and owing us back rent, she left trash and property and belongings and a ruined friendship in her wake.
But we pulled on our big girl panties (yes, even The Man) and moved on. We sold it within a week to a very nice man who put a down payment on it.
When we went to update the abstract, all hell broke loose and we learned that there was a problem with the deed and it would have to go through probate.
The man we'd been buying it from for ten years wasn't in any big hurry to fill out forms and take care of it (why would he be? He was still getting paid!), and his dragging of the feet has landed us at the first of February and a possible closure in the next week.
Luckily our buyer is a saint and has hung on for the long haul.
But still, we've had to climb a mountain just to see the other side on what should have been an easy experience.
Last year, we had to struggle with Bug's school and diagnosis and everything that went with it.
We had two plus years of dealing with The Man's hand and injuries.
We're still dealing with it in the form of crippling headaches due to his PTSD.
And last week, my darling baby girl was basically handed a sentence of asthma. Not that the doctor would say it for sure, but if you put her on daily nebulizations with a medication designed to stop asthma attacks and tell me we'll be using an inhaler next, that duck is quacking loud enough for me to hear.
I'm not complaining. Well, yes, I am. A little. Five minutes, remember?
I know other people have it worse with illness and death and debt and no homes or family.
I get it. My complaints are minimal in comparison.
I wouldn't trade places with them for the world.
But it would be nice to trade up and have more money and more freedom and less stress and better health.
I've grown up hearing we're never given any more burden than we can carry.
Someone must have realized I can carry a lot and still stay upright. (I'd love to know who ratted me out so I could slap them silly and ask WTH they were thinking?)
But it would be nice to not have to shoulder such a heavy burden, not to be such a pack mule, and to be able to breathe.
Selling the house will be a huge breath of fresh air.
And a load of this ass's back.

Silence

There are time when my mind is so full it feels empty, as though it is a bottomless cavern that can hold no more. No more thought, no more knowledge, no more emotion.
On those days, I want to retreat into myself and find that small, still, silent place within.
It reminds me of the Neverending Story and the quest to stop the Nothing from devouring the world.
I yearn for that nothing.
But, as the mother of three small children who have no idea how glorious silence can be, my moment of peace is normally gone in the blink of an eye.
I love my heathens, but I crave quiet like an alcoholic craves his next drink.
My husband is a good man, but he likes to talk, and I just want to retreat into the confines of my mind to just . . . be.
My life is full and boisterous and noisy and alive.
And I treasure that.
But occassionally, a mama just needs to breathe, to stop, to listen to the echoing sounds of nothing in her mind.
Without the pounding of little feet, the cries of indiginant outrage, the needs of four other people pressing down into my silence, making it heavy and loud and full.