Ok, I know you're all getting bored reading my story and all... So I figured I'd spice things up a bit. Isn't that nice?
Click on this link for some real fun!
Thursday, June 30, 2005
One of those question thingies....
---Erase answers & put in your own.---
1. What is your name?
Shanna/Blondie/chanemza/Hey, you! Dumbass!
2. What color underwear are you wearing now?
Pink lace thongs (the wedgie-free permawedgie oxymoron panties)
3. What are you listening to right now?
The wind and the kids playing in the yard.
4. What are the last 2 digits of your phone number?
00
5. What was the last thing you ate?
Life cereal.
6. If you were a crayon what color would you be?
Forest green or seafoam
7. How is the weather right now?
It's 78F, windy and clear. GORGEOUS.
9. The first thing you notice about the opposite/same sex?
We didn't lose the broom. I think my Mr. Grouchypants over here has it shoved up his ass. :D
10. Favorite Food?
Potatoes. I LOVE potatoes. Fried, mashed, baked, boiled, steamed, sliced, diced, hashed, red, white, yellow, sweet (yams), you name it. Except German potato salad. That SUCKS.
11. Favorite Drink?
Coffee. {{O.O}} LOTS o' java.
12. Favorite Alcoholic Drink?
DECENT wine or a Vodka mixer, but I really rarely drink more than a few times a year.
13. Favorite place to shop?
All those hippy import places or the alternative/goth places. (I don' wanna grow up, I'm a Toys 'R' Us kid....)
14. Hair color:
Pale blonde
15. Eye Color:
Blue/green hazel
16. Do you wear contacts?
Nope. Perfect vision. It's the balance that's a little off... ok. FINE. I'm a ditz. Happy now???
17. Top or Bottom?
Both. Whatever happens to happen :)
18. Favorite month?
April. Flowers and spring rains and green (except in Wisconsin :P). Oh, yeah... and my birthday.
19. Favorite fast food?
The inherently evil McD's... (I know, I know... God help me, I LOVE the FRIES!!!! OMG...)
20. Last Movie you Watched?
White Noise. The Boogeyman is for later... MUAHAHAHAHA!!!!
21. Favorite Day of the Year?
Christmas. It's for my babies. I love watching them on Christmas morning!
22. Are you too shy to ask someone out?
Naw, I just insult them until they propose to me :P
23. Summer or Winter
SPRING OR FALL. Geez... can't even give me the GOOD choices!
24. Hugs or Kisses?
Hugs. It's harder to slobber a hug. Plus, if you have a reputation as a huggy person, you get to run up and hug the really really HOT guys, and nobody notices that you're really savoring that INCREDIBLE chest....ahem. I meant my fiance. I did. Seriously.
25. Chocolate or Vanilla?
Isn't this obvious....CHOCOLATE (I'm goin' with Sandi on this one)
26. Do you want your friends to respond back?
That bunch of los... uh... Yeah! Of course I do :D
27. Who is most likely to respond?
Whoever happens to be the boredest. (Is that a word? hehe)
28. Who do you want to respond?
Publisher's Clearinghouse. Let me know if you see the van coming. I'm ready, Ed!!!!
29. What books are you reading?
Ghost by Hans Holzer, plus some various chick mags like LHJ and Better Homes and.... shhh.... Cosmo... (snicker)
30. favorite t.v. shows?
Those history or geographical or hospital or weather-related documentaries. Or the Law and Order ones. We don't watch often, but those are fun if there's nothing better to do. Like pry that stick out of my fiance's ass :D
35. Who inspires you?
My fiance. I want to know how he got that thing so far up there....
36. Butter, Plain or Salted popcorn?
Homemade carmel corn. Or kettle corn.
37. Dogs or cats?
Schipperkes, miniature doberman looking Chihuahua doggies and evil-looking black cats.
38. Favorite Flower?
Sweet pea, columbine (aka dragonfly), lilies (especially tiger lilies and lily of the valley), dogwood flowers (all of the above in pale pink or white - except the tiger lilies, that would be silly)
39. What do you say when you wake up in the A.M.?
"Honey, did you make coffee?"
40. Do you still talk to your best friends from middle school?
Yep. She lives in Alaska. And her's my bestest fwiend in the whoooooooole wide world.... (hehehee, bite me Bren! Muah! :D)
41. What's on your desk?
I can't see my desk.
42. Rock Concert or symphony?
Veggie Tales Live!! :D (They're both! Multi-talented Vegetables!)
43. Play or Opera?
Either: Les Miserables or La Traviata
44. Have you ever fired a gun?
No. I'm a big chicken.
45. Do you like to travel by plane?
I'm afraid of heights, are you NUTS???
46. Right-handed or Left-handed?
Right.
47. Smooth or Chunky Peanut Butter?
Both.
48. How many pillows do you sleep with?
2-3, depending on whether I'm able to nab the squishy one before crabass does :D
49. City you live in?
Kaukauna, WI. Home of the really raunchy smell. I'm not kidding. EW.
50. Ever hitchhiked?
No.
60. Ever been in love?
Like, yeah. Sheesh.
61 Sexuality?
The neighbors don't like loud noises at 3am.
62. Regret things?
As does everyone, but should we center our lives on regret? Or on the lessons learned?
63. what are you scared of?
Spiders. EW EW EW!!
64. wanted someone you can never have?
My first love, for a long time. Now I have Mr. Happiness and Sunshine over here with the pole up his butt :D
65. what are you happy about?
My kids.
66. Ever gotten drunk.
In my late teens/early twenties I could outdrink anyone with a bottle of vodka straight. Now... well... I can take an ounce of beer in a dropper and get toasted.
67. What are some things you want to do before you die?
Visit Ireland, rural Europe, Nepal, Malaysia, Thailand, Tibet, etc.
68. Favorite quote?
"Do not meddle in the affairs of cats, for they are subtle and will piss on your computer." - Bruce Graham
69.What do you want that you can never have?
Unlimited free access to the buffet at China King.
70. two things you want?
The broomstick from outta this here John Wayne wanna-be's hiney!!
Oh... yeah. And chocolate.
:D
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
New Menu Information
I have created a new menu, located in the top right column under the "about" heading. This was created so that the previous posts on my history could be more easily accessed. If you have any questions or comments, please email me.Also, there appears to be an issue with the link labeled "Prologue 3". For some reason it refuses to go where it should. The post can be found in the January 2005 Archive, under the heading "The age of innocence" or here.
Chapter 5 seems to be having the same problem, and can be viewed here.
I've resolved the issue. Pure, unadulterated blondeness.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Taking a breather...
The thoughts and feelings evoked by the previously written posts carry with them an unimaginable weight. Frankly, i need a break.
Therefore, I have decided to post a very cute (and TRUE!) story from Desz.
I'd also like to point you allin the direction of Scott, who shares the same birthday. And not just the date. THE DAY. As in we were born on the VERY same day.... freaky stuff!
Hey Scott: It didn't happen to be around 11:45 am....?
More will be written on the other stuff soon.
Part Five: Bittersweet homecoming
I'd spent Christmas Eve and Day with the former foster parents who had cared for my two smaller children (the baby was never taken into state custody) the entirety of the previous year. It was a little scary, not having known them on a personal level for long; even moreso meeting their extended family. I was (and still am) treated just as they'd treat any other family member. Under the circumstances, I was incredibly grateful and relieved.
The first few months home with my children were difficult, but it was to be expected. There were going to be trust and abandonment issues stemming from the separation, and I expected some fallout.
My older daughter was turning five in January. She understood a little better than my son (who was only two), but her understanding was still very limited. Up until their return I had been under strict orders by the previous county's CPS workers to never tell them neither that I missed them nor when they would return home. The total lack of reassurance was traumatizing for my children. Why didn't mommy want them to live with her? How could they possibly understand what was going on?
Once, when my then five-year-old wanted to imitate me, she'd decided to try to shave her legs. I hadn't thought of it when I'd thrown the old disposable razor in the bathroom trash pail, and she'd seen it and dug it out. I'd heard quiet sobbing from upstairs and went up to check on her. I saw her sitting quietly in the corner, tears streaming down her cheeks, shaking like a leaf. She was hugging her legs to her chest when she looked up at me and sobbed harder.
"I'm sorry, Mommy," she pleaded, "Don't be mad, I love you, I'm sorry." I was completely bewildered. I told her, "It's ok, honey, Mommy's not mad. What's wrong?"
Her body now racked with tremors, she held out her leg. On her thigh was a thin, shallow scrape. She grabbed my arm, crying softly and covering my arm with kisses, "I love you, Mommy, I love you, don't be mad." I nearly broke down as well.
"Oh, baby, I'm not mad. Please don't be scared, it's ok. I know it was an accident. We just need to remember not to touch those things, ok? Mommy should have thrown it out somewhere else." My little girl was terrified that if she was at all disobedient, she would be sent away.
I was still under the supervision of the county for another year, just to be sure I could "handle it". I still didn't have my older two boys, who were then eleven and eight. They had gone to their paternal families. The younger two (excluding the new baby) had no contact with their fathers, by their fathers' choice (there's a reason for the pluralization, in case you haven't guessed yet - I have a crappy track record when it comes to choices in men).
My second-oldest was with his father. At the time, he was understandably suspicious and it was quite awhile until we had any reasonable interaction (it's much better now, he's much more understanding of the circumstances). I didn't see my son often at first, but his visits for the weekend eventually became more regular. His father had been granted sole custody when I was homeless and without transportation to the hearing, though I'd begged the workers to help me to get there. At the hearing itself, I was later told they informed the courts my whereabouts were unknown, even though I'd been in constant contact with them via phone and email I had access to through friends.
My oldest was living with his paternal grandparents. His father was not granted custody or physical placement because of his drug and alcohol problems and his refusal to complete AODA counseling. Unfortunately, my ex's parents were under the impression that wife-beating was supposed to be handled behind closed doors, and not reported to the police - no matter how many times it occurred. I had apparently "ruined their son's (my ex's) life". I had been told my son would be returned to my custody shortly after the return of the younger two, so that I wouldn't become "overwhelmed". That story didn't change for four months.
In April of 2004, the county workers came to my home. Sitting in my livingroom while my smaller children played near me, they informed me that there was to be a hearing for permanent guardianship of my oldest child and that they were recommending he remain with his grandparents. Their reasoning was that I had too much to deal with having the younger children, and that one more would be a burden. I was flabbergasted... devastated! Why would they return the others and not him? Where was the logic here?
The conversation which followed must be heavily censored here. Suffice it to say, I less than calmly told them where to put their "recommendation" and their lies to me, asked them to leave and thoughtfully placed more than a few expletives in for good measure. I had done more than was ever expected of me, even more than was thought possible! I had been told by the caseworkers at the shelter (whose attempts to contact the workers while I was there went unanswered) that I was a "go-getter" and was used as a success story by them. I was working my rear-end off. I did everything I was told, I was completely compliant. Why would they change their story now?
The guardianship hearing (which took place in the county of my prior residence)was the following month. My son had asked if he could go, but the workers refused to allow it because he was a few months underage. He asked me if he could write a letter to the judge instead, and I agreed. He wrote a note and, in the manner of a schoolchild wanting to preserve his sense of privacy, folded it into a tiny package and taped it closed. I didn't want to invade that privacy, but had to make copies for my own safety. I made several for anyone in the court who might need them (the original went to the judge at the hearing along with my other letters).
I had no money for an attorney, but called every one in the phonebook, anyway. I had gotten one to listen, but she couldn't speak to me until the day after the initial hearing. My case had been transferred to the county I now lived in, and I had even gotten a letter of reference from the new worker (the prior county still has yet to transfer all of my records to her) who was unable to attend. The former foster mother even went with me, for which there was talk of having her fosterparent license removed for "enabling me", both for acting as a witness at the hearing and for allowing me the use of their vehicle for several months so that I could get to work until I could get a van of my own (which, incidentally, was given to me by the foster mom's sister).
The hearing was a total fiasco. After I had submitted my letters, I was reprimanded by the judge for allowing my son to have any involvement in an "adult issue". The attorney for the social services department accused me of either coercing my son to write the letter or telling him what to write. I had done neither, but my explanations were meaningless. The foster mom of my other children was allowed to testify on my behalf, but was constantly interrupted by the judge's reprimands of me. The worker who had been in charge of my case in that county sat on the stand with a smirk as she told them of my inadherance to their rules and their recommendation that my son remain with his grandparents permanently. I lost. My son would not be coming home.
Imagine losing a child. Imagine not having the legal ability to spend a holiday, birthday or any other day with him without permission. In two years, I have spent three holidays with him: A few hours of Easter, 2004; New Year's, 2005; Mother's Day 2005. Christmases, birthdays and other holidays are for "the family" - their family. I am no longer considered one of his parents, only an unfortunate inconvenience. I was granted every third weekend with my son, since both his father and his grandparents needed weekends with him. No holidays were laid out: If it lands on "my" weekend, I can have him. Unless they have plans, and then the weekends are switched. If it's not my weekend, better luck next time.
In developing an opinion to all of this, one must keep in mind that at a halfway-point hearing of my progress, the board had told me that I was doing an exemplary job, and that I was not a typical case. I was never into drugs and rarely drink - three to four times a year, at the worst. I had no prior criminal record. I had attended college and have certifications in Early Childhood Education, First Responder, Certified Nurse's Assistant and Administration and Supervision of Childcare Centers. At the time of the hearing, I was the acting director of a childcare center, and the owner knew my circumstances before I was hired.
The attorney I spoke with the next day was as confused as I was. Her interpretation is that my son's grandparents know someone in the court system. As a matter of fact, I might just know who that is. I have a letter in my possession I fully intend to use. It's from my ex's attorney regarding one of his arrests for beating me. In it, the attorney congratulates him for attaining a lesser charge. It goes on to explain that in order to gain that lesser charge, my ex's attorney was asked to go to the District Attorney's Christmas party. This particular DA (Winnebago County, WI - check news archives for Joseph Paulus) is currently serving 58 months for precisely this type of bargaining.
In that town, it's not who you are or what you do. It's who you know.
Sunday, June 12, 2005
Intermission...
I know these posts seem to end in strange places, but it was getting to be so long I decided to break it up. It's also very difficult to put it all out there, and my stomach is in knots.
The point of all this is to have my story told from my perspective. I want it out there. I want the truth known. I want the rumors in the real world - and the virtual one - squelched.
There are two sides to every story. And everyone has a story.
I'm sure there are going to be a few comments, but before you do, please remember two very important things:
"So when they continued asking him, he lifted up himself, and said unto them, He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her."
--John 8:7 (King James Version)
and
"1"Do not judge, or you too will be judged. 2For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you."
--Matthew 7 (New International Version)
More will be posted soon.
Part Four: Saving Grace
I had finally gotten an order allowing me to remove my belongings from my former apartment and had enough money from my first paycheck and a benevolence fund for a Uhaul and storage rental. Since there was no-one else to ask, my only help in moving was another resident at the shelter. It took us three solid days, but we managed to get everything out and stored. Unfortunately, it also caused me to go into labor. I was five-and-a-half months into an already high-risk pregnancy. I was made to promise to stay on bed rest and was given medication to stop the contractions. I decided then that this child would be a girl and her name would be Grace. It was only by God's grace she was living inside me at all.
I am, and always have been, a very stubborn person. I have been known to push myself very hard in my determination to accomplish something. I was being told that in my situation it would be impossible to ever have my children returned. I'd had to take a leave of absence from my job, I was still at the shelter and had no way of making a deposit on an apartment.
Still, I refused to give up. I researched programs and talked to churches. I applied for assistance with local HUD housing authorities, but was told there were waiting lists at least 18 months long. I applied anyway. And I applied for apartments, too. I scoured the papers and the internet at the local library. I was allowed to visit my children for an hour a week at the social services offices and did the best I could to help them cope. I was determined to not only get out of that shelter, but to find a home and get my children back to me.
I went into full-blown labor nearly three-and-a-half weeks early. My labor coach was a woman at the shelter. The room was filled with my obstetrician and the birthing ward nurses, as well as several staff from the neonatal intensive care unit. I was told that unless this child came out pink and screaming, I needed to be prepared for them to move her into intensive care immediately. There was a significant chance she would have problems with her lungs, and we were still unsure of other possible problems.
My labor's progression was fast and intense, but my daughter was born crying and got near-perfect APGAR scores. She is my miracle child, and the validation of my continued faith that all would be well. She was allowed to remain with me at the shelter, and I was able to breastfeed her and return to work shortly thereafter.
Out of the blue, a government loophole opened up and the shelter received a letter asking for names of a small number of residents whom they might recommend who had applied for housing assistance. My caseworker at the shelter placed me on the list and I was clear to begin the acceptance process for a home I had been looking at.
Even before I knew what the outcome might be, I was helping to remodel the duplex I had applied for. I had told them my story in its entirety and they had accepted me anyway. HUD bureaucracy was a grueling process, but with the help of my shelter caseworkers, I was able to move into the five bedroom duplex with my now two-month-old daughter.
Soon after, I was asked by my caseworkers at the shelter if they could use Grace's story for a community service program they were starting and wanted to use her picture. Project Saving Grace was born and her image is on both the posters and the main page of their site.
I had, in the meantime, become frinds with the foster family caring for my then two- and five-year-old children. They went so far as to invite me to their home for both Thanksgiving and for Christmas Eve. It was Christmas Day 2003 when I was allowed by social workers to bring my two children in foster care home. They had spent a full year outside of my care.
Part Three: My Life Is Not My Own
I had begun dating a staff member of the apartment complex soon after my children were removed. After a few months he'd asked me to move in with him, but told me there was something I should know: He told me he was shooting up heroine. About a month after I broke up with him, I found out I was pregnant for the fifth time. I was terrified at the potential outcome of a child born of one parent's addiction to street drugs and the other's prescribed medications, which even the medical professionals admitted were harmful in the first trimester.
Nearing the end of November, I could feel myself slipping again. The exhaustion was worsening and I was again becoming disoriented most of the time. The house was constantly a mess and I was barely coherent enough to send my older boys off to school in the morning. I again tried to tell anyone who would listen, even to the extent of calling the social worker (who had, only a couple of months before, told me how wonderfully I was doing). She never answered my call, but did come out to the house a couple of weeks later in December of 2002 - to once again remove my children.
Some members of a local church who'd give door-to-door bible studies had become friends and asked me to attend their church with them that Sunday, which was four days since I'd lost my children for the second time. I prayed, asking God forgiveness for being such an awful mother to these beautiful children who made my life worth living. After I went home that night, I took about 40 pills of a medication that in overdose would cause unconsciousness, coma and finally death. No more pain. I remember screaming at the paramedics to let me die. I remember pulling out the IV. I don't remember much else of the three days I was hospitalized, but the baby I was carrying somehow survived.
I spent the next few weeks away from my apartment. I couldn't bear the thought of being there alone in utter silence, but I had also quit all my medications at once (of my own accord) and preferred to not be alone. Aside from a few lung-tightening panic attacks, all went smoothly.
I made an appointment with my doctor, who thought I was still taking everything he'd prescribed. I had to lie to avoid a charge of non-compliance with the social workers in charge of my case. My doctor told me that I was doing wonderfully. I asked him to allow me to go off of the medication, giving him no indication that I already had. He refused, saying he didn't want to ruin my current progress and attributed my returning energy level to the children having been removed. I knew he was wrong, as did everyone close to me, but I simply thanked him and never set another appointment.
I returned to my apartment to find that I had been locked out. There was no eviction notice, the rent was only about a week past due. The staff member I had been dating (and the father of the child I was carrying) was a friend of the apartment manager. I was forced, at five months pregnant, to enter a homeless shelter. I wasn't even allowed to remove my belongings until three months later when I got a court order to do so.
I was now homeless, had no car, no job and was quite obviously pregnant. Social workers tried to talk me into giving my children up to the foster family the younger two were with. I'd already lost custody of the older two because I had no transportation to the court hearings, and the social workers ignored my pleas for help to attend them. They instead went to the hearings and stated that I could not be located.
Doctors told me there was little chance my unborn child would be born completely healthy. Even though a series of sonograms came back normal, doctors were concerned about the cognitive abilities of the baby. Social workers urged me to have an abortion, or at least consider a special needs adoption if the baby happened to be born alive, especially since I had been charged with four misdemeanor counts of criminal child neglect over the first removal of my children and was now on voluntary probation (with total compliance on the volunteer program, the charges can be dismissed).
I had no intention of giving up any of my children. I felt horrible for what they'd been through, but I also knew that there place was with their mother. I wanted to make it right - for them and for me. I began to pray as often as I could find time alone to do so. I prayed for the life of my baby, for the return of my children, for normalcy in our lives.
I took busses and walked for miles every day and managed to find a job as a resident assistant at a local assisted living facility. It was second shift, and I had to tell my employer I was living in a homeless shelter when he insisted on giving me a ride home. He was an older gentleman and a Christian and would chat with me often. My faith hadn't diminished in the faced of what I was going through - it intensified.
Part Two: The Beginning of The End
By April of 2002 I'd had my first breakdown, what the doctor called "exhaustion" from working too hard. The dosages of the medications were increased and more of them were added. I began to feel easily confused and disoriented. I was tired all the time. I slept an average of 16 to 20 hours a day. I was conscious for no more than a couple of hours at a time, and then only partially aware of my surroundings. I'd had to drop out of college and by June I was barely able to function at all. I'd been calling the doctor (whom I was unable to reach directly) and asked a friend who lived in my apartment complex for help. I wasn't entirely sure even what help I needed, only that I needed for someone to listen.
The neighbor was someone that I'd also considered on of my closest friends. She told me to go home and get some rest. Not to worry, she'd told me, it would all work out. The next night, another neighbor mentioned she had an air conditioner she'd give to me.
Our apartments had windows on only one side and were like brick ovens in hot weather. The unbearable heat was taking its toll on the baby and my other children. I agreed to meet her at her apartment to help bring it to mine. Meanwhile, the friend who'd been my confidant had seen me leave my apartment to go to the neighbors about 100 feet adjacent to where I lived.
It was about 10:30 pm and the children were asleep. It never occurred to me to wait until morning. In my fogged mind I reasoned that the morning heat could be avoided if the new air conditioning unit were installed that night, and I'd only be gone for a few minutes. I had no idea that the woman next door whom I'd considered such a good friend was watching me leave and would call the police, saying that I'd left my children alone. It was a choice I'd regret for the rest of my life.
I remember being told by the officers who arrived that I could be arrested for abandonment if I refused to cooperate with the social workers who were taking my children into custody. The house was unkempt and a general mess. I was asked to get some things together for the children, and told they would be in foster care for an unknown period of time while social workers worked with me to ensure it was "safe" to return them. As I dropped to the floor sobbing, an officer asked a neighbor to keep me at her home in case I became suicidal.
Over the course of the next three weeks, I did everything I could to comply with the system so my children could be returned. I kept up the house and finally got through to my doctor, who reduced one of the six medications I was taking and removed another entirely. My children were returned, with the stipulation that social services stay involved for the next year, and I keep up with my doctor appointments and medications.
Things seemed to get better for a few months, and my medications were adjusted several times for everything from nervous problems and anxiety to my continued problems with fatigue and exhaustion. For one of these medications, my prescription was to take nine 300 mg capsules a day - 2700 mg in total at my highest prescribed dosage. I later found out that I was prescribed one-and-a-half times the FDA approved dosage, and in combination with my other medications I was on a highly depressive med-cocktail. There is currently on-going litigation involving that particular medication (against the pharmaceutical company), which I am also involved in. Unfortunately for me at the time, this was the medication which was increased - and actually tripled.
Part One: Story of Another Life
I'd like to tell you a story. A true story about my life in the very recent past. Some of you know this story from firsthand experience because you were there for me. Some of you know this story only from what you've heard, but the grapevine can be cruel and heartless and unforgiving. What you're about to experience is the last few years of my life. Understanding the truth in the circumstances will help you to better understand who I am.
The period of time in 1999 after the birth of my daughter, my third child, was turbulent and emotional for me and everyone around me. I had endured the death of my favorite uncle only two-and-a-half years before(who was only 39 - you can read about that here), my grandfather six months later, my younger cousin and her two little girls a few months before (read about them here) and discovered (admitted to myself?) that my grandfather had molested me as a child.
My intermittent periods of anger and tears seemed to be unending. There was no light at the end of the tunnel, and it only got darker when my daughter's father - whom I'd loved dearly - left us. Co-workers at the daycare center where I taught preschool convinced me to go to the doctor.
Several doctors and dozens of medications later I still had no answers and still felt no better. The consensus (after a twenty-minute visit in one doctor's office) was that I was bipolar. None of the other doctors questioned this diagnosis, nor was I tested further (psychologically or otherwise). I was in a constant stupor. I couldn't have told you left from right if you'd asked me. Friends often told me I looked "stoned" although I'd never been involved in drugs (aside from a short period between 19 and 20 when I'd experimented with marijuana, but decided I hated feeling stupid and quit). Quite honestly, "stoned" is a pretty fair description of how I felt, too.
I gave birth to my fourth child in July of 2001 (still on the medication). He was a quiet, contented little boy. I had breastfed and worn in infant slings for all of my children, so the bonds were very strong. We were a very close-knit family. I had made a number of poor choices in relationships, so for the most part we were all we had.
My children would talk to me about everything and anything, but that didn't make my life as a single parent easy. I had just had my then boyfriend arrested. I'd caught him viewing child pornography and beastiality sites on our computer. I was struggling to make it through college for an early childhood degree, working part-time, caring for four children alone and in the midst of it all trying to make sense of my life. A few months later, however, my two-and-a-half-year-old daughter opened my eyes even more.
My little one had what, for the purposes of decency, we'll call "behaviors" when she was alone in her room at night. It was more than a little disturbing when I would see these things as I checked in on her at night, so I sat down next to her. I was nearing tears and tried not to frighten her with any semblance of panic.
"Honey," I began as calmly as I could manage, "sometimes people hurt people..."
"Sometimes people hold people," my daughter interrupted.
"Who held you, baby?" My heart leapt into my stomach.
"My daddy Mick." This is what she'd called him, since we'd been together from the time she was only a few months old.
"Where did Daddy hold you?"
"He hold me like this," she said, placing her hands on her hips. My first thought was that this was going to turn into a story about playing airplane or swimming. I was beginning to feel calmer. "Then what happened?" I asked.
I could not have prepared for her next statement: "Then he go potty on me." I knew in my heart, as sick as her words made me feel, exactly what she meant. There was no mistaking the horrible scenario that began playing out in my mind.
Did you know that if no-one sees the perpetrator molesting the child, and if there is also no physical evidence (i.e. from penetration), the perpetrator will not be charged? Unfortunately, I found this out the hard way.
Saturday, June 11, 2005
Stuff And Nonsense
Today we're going to go see THE house: a seven-bedroom brick beauty built in 1896 with shutters and fireplaces, a fenced-in yard, three-and-a-half freaking BATHROOMS, mature and well-cared-for trees and about eight blocks from Lake Michigan. I'm on pins and needles with excitement.
The gorgeous thing is only listed at about a third what you'd think it's worth because it's got crappy carpeting all over and some other minor TLC issues, and it's been used temporarily as a group home. Frankly, I don't give a high-flying crap if it's haunted with the ghosts of seven murdering pirates, damnit! I want that house!
So anyway, I'm taking a (ahem) break from the morning crap while Jeff is out doing a photo shoot for a client (what he don't know won't hurt him, HA!). I still gotta get off my rear end and pack for the beach and dress the kids. Aw shup, it's freaking Saturday, who's that anal?!?
I think I have enough bathing suits to clothe a third-world country. So I'm pawing around the dresser, griping about how I look in them (the same ones I thought were sooo hot in the store, of course)and decide to try on a bikini. Mind you, this in itself is a massive act of sheer bravado, since this past winter was pretty bad (as fibromyalgia symptoms go) and most of my muscles are deconditioned. But I was having a "fuck it" moment.
I LOOK FREAKING HOT!!!!!
As funny as it was, Kim... There are advantages to being a MILF! Okay, not in the Jackson-perverted-sick-fucker way. But I look pretty darn good for five kids, and so does Kim, I might add. (Did I mention Jeff wants another one?? Freak.)
Speaking of Kim (who's the whore, now, huh??), her blog is hysterical! I kept my poor husband-to-be up until 3am reading her stuff. We both laughed so hard we were in tears. I swear to God I'm related to that chick, we have so much in common.
Kim, if you wanna see freaky weather you have to come to Wisconsin. I'll have a cocktail waiting for ya.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Meme! (Nope, I'm not singing. It's a questionnaire, silly!)
You know the drill, boys and girls: Copy and paste the questions into your own site and insert your answers.
Meme courtesy of TheQueen.
Ten years ago:
I was 24,
I had one beautiful almost-three-year-old boy and
I was pregnant with my second child.
Five years ago:
I was 29,
My boys were 7 and 4 and my daughter was 1,
I was teaching preschool,
I was going to school for the same,
I had no idea how much my life was about to change - or how my faith and strength would be tested.
Yesterday:
I went to physical therapy and got praise for doin' good, yay me!
I was still walking on clouds over the big account I landed (a MALL),
I began planning stages for two fibromyalgia benefits: One this summer and one next spring.
Today:
I wouldn't trade my five kids for the world and am grateful to have my fiance and his three children in my life!
I haven't had my first cuppa COFFEE you slave-drivers,
I'm going to post more than you'll ever care to know (later, and over the next few days),
I plan to stalk, case out, and further stake out a house I really, really, really wanna buy!
Five snacks I like:
coffee (yes, it qualifies - because I said so!),
chocolate,
Ice cream (Starbucks coffee chocolate ice cream is an orgasm in a box!)
Yogurt,
Cheese (any kind, I just love it).
Five songs I know all the music to without the music:
pretty much anything I've heard and I don't wanna pick five, 'cause I need coffee. So there.
Five things I would do with 100 million smackaroos:
Own my own home.
Ensure the lives of my kids and close family and friends would be comfortable.
Start my foundation for special-needs and low-income families (which I WILL do anyway).
Give back to all those who got me through.
Visit Ireland and track my ancestry through travel.
Five places I would love to run away to:
Ireland,
Devils' Hopyard in Connecticut,
Any small, quiet New England shore,
Provencal France,
Back to bed.
Five bad habits I have:
Smoking.
Swearing.
I'm stubborn.
I try to fix everything for everyone else.
I keep things in until I blow up...
Things I like doing:
Blogging,
Writing,
Singing,
Drinking coffee,
Sleeping.
Things I would never wear:
Oh, come on... gimme a break.
I'm sexy in EVERYTHING!
ahem....
Shows I like:
The news,
Queer eye (gay guys rock!),
Movies I like:
City of Angels,
Serendipity,
Good Fellas,
Coyote Ugly,
Sleeping Beauty (the Disney one).
Famous people I would like to meet:
Robert Smith (the cure)
Bebo Norman,
Jennifer Knapp,
Nicholas Cage,
Angelina Jolie.
Biggest joys at the moment:
My children,
My fiance and his family,
Music,
writing,
working in a company I share with my future husband, doing something I never knew I could and being good at it.
Sunday, June 05, 2005
That's Just So Rude!!
I love a good thunderstorm. I love the strong winds and the lightening and the smell of ozone. Now throw in a tornado, mind you, and I'm sobbing like a girl and running for the basement in sheer panic. But thunderstorms are fun.
There were some scattered storms forecasted for today, but it ended up being so clear and warm we packed up and headed for Lake Michigan. We had a great time for hours and even got a little tan. It was windy and there were some decent waves to play in. Jeff's a staunchy ol' poop, so he only went in up to his knees, but the rest of us were up to our necks chasing waves.
We got home around dinnertime and set up the grill. It started to look greenish out the back door as we were finishing up, and Jeff and I went out to look. There were tornado watches going on all around us, and we expected to get hit with something significant.
As we walked around to the front of the house, I noticed it had already begun to clear up. Disappointed, I mockingly pouted, "Oh, come on. That's it!? We're not getting any of it!?"
At that very moment, I heard what I thought was light hail hit the roof. I made for the house and got hit with a splatter of raindrops - just a splatter, and altogether lasting a whole two seconds. Most interesting is that it all landed in about a twenty-yard area around our house.
Jeff almost fell over laughing and said "So there! I guess He showed you!"
I think I was spit on by God.... Darnit. This can't be a good sign.
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