an apology to my son

I'M BAAAAACK! Not so much "better than ever" but you get what you get...

To quote my main man Jack Johnson:

And if it ain't this then its that
As a matter of fact
She hasn't had a day to relax
Since she has lost her ability to think clearly

(From a song that until 30 seconds ago I thought was called "Taylor," but, apparently, is called "Posters?")

I should apologize to you, too, for being MIA lately. I'm spread a little thin, which has led to this latest episode of "digital constipation." That reminds me - don't let me forget to tell you about the time my sister gave me laxatives and I almost died, and then ten years later when I forgot this important lesson, which resulted in a visit from some friendly members of Sacramento Metropolitan Fire District Station 109.

Anyway, as DM just wrote to a friend, "After 14 years, I've finally discovered Mack's tipping point:

Buying a house, furnishing said house and turning it into a 'home,' selling two other houses (and organizing the repair and maintenance said sales entail), packing and moving a family of four, two kids in two new schools, and switching one kid's school two weeks in (more on that another day), a spastic dog who may or may not like to snack on small children, interviewing new babysitters so that we might actually be able to get in a full day's work, cross-country travel, weekly birthday parties and the purchase of creative and age-appropriate presents they entail (God Bless Amazon Prime), a husband who demands time for surfing and football, the magically multiplying laundry pile, attempting to keep our place from looking like a Hoarders episode between housekeeper visits, a 1.5 hour daily commute, throwing an accidentally enormous farewell pool party, the small matter of her full-time employment, then add insomnia, and hey, searching for another puppy to adopt because, well, why the f*ck not?!" (That last part is clearly indicative of some sort of chemical imbalance and/or masochistic streak).

So. That's what's going on with me. How about you?!

But. Back to the task at hand. I saw this article the other day about a reporter who's name was in the Ashley Madison database (solely for "research" purposes ;)) and how it made her think twice about what she writes online about her kids, because, apparently, THERE IS NO LONGER SUCH A THING AS PRIVACY AND THERE NEVER WILL BE EVER AGAIN?!?!?* Ms. Patterson writes, "When our kids were less than 5 years old, our fears defined who they were. But now, at ages 10, 8 and 6, we get to see what remarkable beings they’re becoming." It was a good piece and it made me think twice, mostly because DM is always saying I better erase all traces of my blog before our kids are teenagers otherwise they will never forgive me.

I, personally, don't think what I've written is so bad. I actually imagine printing out these hundreds (thousands?) of pages and giving it to them when they have their own kids, so that they can see that they come from the highest pedigree of insanity, and they shouldn't feel alone. I think it shows the evolution of me and my attitudes as a parent, and of my children from baby blobs to real, honest-to-goodness little humans. I've called them raging psychotic A-holes, and angels sent from heaven above. I think (I hope!) that my love for them is apparent. And obviously I think I'm hilarious so there's that ;)

But maybe that's just because I don't have the gift of perspective that time provides. Will I feel the same way about these posts in ten or twenty years as I do about this mortifying letter I wrote for a class in high school? Probably. I remember coming across my old journals when we moved into our current house, and after flipping through them, I just tossed them all, because they were too embarrassing to read. The tone - let alone the content! - was literally unbearable. Thank the LORD they were not memorialized online for eternity!!!

When I was in law school, I wrote regularly to my BFF who was in the Peace Corps in Mozambique. (Did I tell you about the time I sent her a care package that never arrived, and it was "returned to sender," tattered and torn, two years later?! I had moved from Sacramento to San Diego and it still managed to find me there! And it was like a time capsule! US Magazine: Jen and Brad. Oh NO! ;)

Anyway. On my wedding day, she gave me all of the letters I had written. And I still have them. It's an awesome idea in theory. But even they are uncomfortable to read. It's just a testament to what nice friends (and husband) I have, that no one tells me to shut my pompous pie hole! Like, who talks like that?!? Me, apparently! I guess if nothing else my words will serve as a cautionary tale, much like the letters from my 16- and 25-year-old selves.

All of this is a very roundabout way of saying that I apologize in advance to my children. I hope this goes without saying (but lately I feel like things that should go without saying need to be said). I love you both so much. So much I sometimes think I might die. (Stand by, Station 109 ;)) I wouldn't trade you and all your you-ness for all the tea in China. You are unique little snowflakes and I am so proud that you are mine. Even those times when I'm embarrassed to be seen with you in public, I know that despite your rabid temper tantrums, frequent lapses in judgment, selective hearing loss, and volume control issues, you are sweet, good, loving, generous and thoughtful little beings and I will never get over the wonder of having had anything to do with bringing you into this world.

And I'd like to give a special shout-out to my son, my firstborn, my boy. I'm not going to go back and read every post I ever wrote about you because, ain't nobody got time for that. But I will just go on ahead and admit that, In The Beginning, I used to think you were our "spirited" (read: challenging) child, while your sister was our "textbook" (read: angel) baby. Well. I was mistaken. You're both challenging and angelic in turns, and it is presently your turn to be angelic while your sister is (much, much) less so. I remember a wizened mother once told me that one should never be lulled into thinking that you have an "easy" child. Every child makes you pay, it's just a matter of whether you pay up front, or incur a debt to be paid, with substantial interest (think adjustable rate mortgages), down the road.

So, I stand corrected. Our lives used to revolve around you and your moods. If Jack wasn't happy, wadn't nobody happy. You were the familial thermostat - from freezing to boiling and back again, we suffered simultaneous hypothermia and heat stroke. But, as with anything else, it was a phase. About which, if it weren't for these words I've written down, I'd probably get momnesia and forget all about. We have now come to rely on your infectious, sunshiny smile each and every morning. You go to great lengths to make our lives easier, almost all of the time. You are kind and helpful. You are the best big brother, and you bend over backwards to appease and accommodate Colby-Jong-Il, the diminutive dictator du jour.

I'm sure the roles will reverse again and again down the road (or maybe they won't). But remember children, you can't believe everything you read. No matter what crazy mutterings your mother may spout, know that she loves you more than the world. Always has, always will.

"Our heads are round so thoughts can change direction." - Allen Ginsberg

* Random unrelated side note on privacy: I don't understand how it's legal for all these real estate sites like Zillow and Trulia and Redfin and whatnot to leave pictures of your house up, INCLUDING THE ROOMS IN WHICH MY FAMILY AND I SLEEP, for ALL the creepy pervs of the interwebs to see?!? Sorry for the shouty caps but honestly! Some lawyer should look into that.

the bedazzled bulldozer

what better way to start your day than with some more critical analysis of heteronormativity and hegemonic masculinity.... AMIRITE?!? hahaha, i'm half kidding.

this is about my boy and his pink blankie - the kernel that sparked my recent gender studies rampage. warning: there may be an inverse relationship between word count and actual knowledge on the subject.

anyway. my son is very ... sensitive. the sensitive child thing, and more specifically, the sensitive boy thing, is enough for a whole book (seriously, there's a whole book), let alone a blog post, so i will address that another time. i know (or hope) that, at least in part, it's the age, hence the "top 50 insane reasons my son is crying" fad. but i also know that, at least in part, it's just who he is. he's the sweetest, funniest, most thoughtful, most empathetic, cleverest little person, but he's also very emotional, raw, dramatic, and intense. he cries a lot and has a quick and furious temper. he gets his feelings hurt SO easily - even a stray look can set him off like a spanish soap opera. we call him our "drama king." he also loves the outdoors and is obsessed with all things sports-related, especially baseball. he will reenact his world-series-winning pitch time and time again, but inevitably, his dad or his sister or i will say something wrong and there will be bats thrown in fury and a waterfall of tears.

jack loves bikes and skateboards and "surfing" and jets and rockets and construction vehicles and motorcycles and garbage trucks. he is also the only boy in his preschool class who listed pink as one of his favorite colors. he has a pink blankie (two of them, actually). he screams bloody f*cking murder if any winged insect flies within 37 feet of his head. (i'm talking like, a gnat, let alone one of those enormous shiny green pterodactyl bugs. last week we were eating lunch out and one of those skeevy things buzzed through the outdoor seating area and jack's reaction was exactly the same as the 14 year old girl one table over). meanwhile, my daughter will stomp on a big juicy spider with her bare foot, or pick up an enormous horned beetle bug between her little pincer fingers like it's no big thing.

jack has an internal safety-meter, closely monitoring himself and anyone in his general proximity, while colby likes to climb anything taller than she is, and will launch herself backwards off any surface with complete faith that someone will catch her. if her faith was misplaced and she comes crashing down on her head, she'll rub some dirt on it and move on. she's a little lover and gives the best "huggles" (snuggle-hugs), but if you wrong her, she will bite you or smack you in your stupid face. she loves "foop-ball" and "beep-ball" and is really into "air-peens" and trucks right now, or, as she calls them, "phucks." :) maybe this is just because her brother also loves all of those things and we basically haven't bought the poor girl a single toy of her own. the only "girly" toys she owns were gifts from aunties and uncles and grandparents. sorry kid ;)

jack likes to have his toenails painted, and when i'm getting ready in the morning he demands his own "makeup" so he can "get ready" for his "'pecial date." he loves to try on my heels (his favorite are a pink patent leather pair that he calls my "ballerina shoes") and his sister's glitter Target Toms. the other night he told me he wanted a pair of glitter shoes, too. DM was sitting there giving me a warning glare so i said, "would you rather have glitter shoes, or light-up Spider Man shoes?" he chose Spider Man, and DM said, "that's my boy!" [*insert eye roll*]

but i couldn't help but ask myself, why did i make him choose? (aside from trying not to make him spoiled as sh*t, and it is too late for that.) the same thing happens when he wants to wear one of his sister's flower headbands to school, or wonders why he doesn't have any tutus. i just duck and weave, claiming they're in the wash or we don't have any in his size. when he asks to have his toenails painted pink or purple, i try to steer him to green or blue. i know how ridiculous that sounds. i'm painting his freaking toenails, so at that point, does it really matter what color they are? (speaking of, did you guys read about the hullabaloo last year when the president of J Crew was featured in an ad with her son, painting his toenails, and the caption read “Lucky for me, I ended up with a boy whose favorite color is pink. Toenail painting is way more fun in neon.” the backlash was quick, fierce, and absolutely absurd. ugh.)

but, my point is, why do i care? why can't i be more brave like that mom who let her son dress up as "Daphne" from Scooby Do on Halloween?* why can't (or rather, won't) i let him choose his own identity without placing my parameters on it? these are obviously my hang-ups, not his. where is that internal cringe-factor coming from when he zeros in on the gold glitter shoes at Payless Shoe Source? my critical gender studies professors would be ashamed of me. he's freaking three. i've seen enough photos of my straight male friends dressed in high heels and dresses as children to know that he will probably not turn into a cross-dresser later in life, no matter what he wears today. i don't worry that i'm "turning him gay" or anything of the sort. either he is or he isn't and i'm fine either way. i guess mostly - at least, this is how i justify it to myself - i feel like i'm protecting him? isn't it better that i steer him toward "gender appropriate" choices now so that he doesn't get teased and made fun of down the road? but then, i am just perpetuating the problem, right?

i mean, we live in california. people name their kids cricket and apple and lazer and some family used their third-born child as a sociological experiment re: gender norms. i understand that we've got a lot more leeway here than we would, for example, in kalamazoo, michigan. i mean, some places, a kid could get beat up for having his toenails painted pink or wearing his tinkerbell backpack to school. but still. i can just see him proudly bringing his favorite pink whatever to show-and-tell and some big brash bully character calling him a pansy or a "girl"... just imagining his little crestfallen face, and him coming home and telling me he hates pink and his new favorite color is black (not technically a color but not the time to tell him that). UGH. just the thought of that imaginary scenario in my mind BREAKS MY HEART. seriously. my heart. it is hurting right now. ouch.

many people claim nature over nurture and i'm not disputing that we all have, at our core, some essence of being that we carried with us into this world. but i think this essence is such a unique, individual thing. i don't think it comes in only two colors, two shapes, two sizes. nothing has driven this point home for me like having children. my kids each burst forth from my womb (and boy did they burst) with their personalities more or less formed. they like what they like and they DO NOT LIKE what they don't. they don't fit any formula, prescription or mold. they couldn't be more different from each other, or different than what i expected.

and who knows. maybe, statistically speaking, more girls do like dolls and more boys do like trucks. but i also know, from my own experience, kids pick up on our every prejudice. yes they come complete with personalities, but the knowledge and information comes from us, and they soak up every last drop, even the things we don't mean to share. to the extent that we do inform and mold their beautiful little minds, our responsibility as parents and as a society is to fill their brains and hearts and souls with everything they need to grow into functioning adult humans, preferably of the non-A-hole variety. one of my best girlfriends was telling me a while back that she was trying to convince her daughter to leave dance class or the park or wherever and she said, "Let's go home so we can watch princesses with Daddy." Millie replied "Daddies don't watch princesses. They watch football." my friend was marveling that our kids are now at the age where we are no longer in total control of the ideas that fill their heads. it's so true, and a little terrifying, too. but in the end, it's a good thing, right? it means there's still hope for children born into that cult of dickish douche bonnets at westboro baptist church.

maybe the fact that i'm even thinking and stressing about it just reinforces the walls that have already been built. i don't know. all i know is, my boy AND my girl like trucks AND dolls, glitter AND baseball. and i want that to be okay. i want to be aware of, and resistant to, this pigeon-holing that we do. looking on Pinterest, i see "10 crafts for toddler boys," "outdoor games girls will love"... can't we just call those "crafts" and "games"? why do we always have to fit everything so neatly into boxes. do this OR that. be this OR that. must check one. it's dumb.

interestingly, i really don't stress about my daughter in this regard. (actually, that's not entirely true. sometimes the daycare girl dresses her in these horrible butchy/frumpy outfits and ties her beautiful curls back into this little knot and she kinda looks like a sumo wrestler and i have to resist the powerful physical urge to change her outfit and fix her hair immediately upon arriving home.) but generally, i don't worry that she's going to get made fun of because she likes football or dresses like a boy (thank you Shiloh Jolie-Pitt). if she wanted to wear light-up spider man shoes instead of pink glitter ones, i wouldn't even think twice (okay, i'd be a little sad. i do love me some glitter. but i am fully prepared for a tomboy/goth phase as retribution for dressing her solely in hot pink for the first 2 years of her life.) so. i guess that strips my biases bare. why is that?!

maybe because she's tougher and thicker skinned than him. maybe because we are (thankfully) getting to a place in history where it's okay and even lauded when females excel at sports, math, science, and life. or maybe it's because, as a woman, i've spent less time confronting and analysing the socialized concepts of masculinity than i have those of femininity. i don't know. i hope you weren't looking to me for any answers, because i don't have any. thanks for coming along for the ride, though. and if you have the answers, please, feel free to share :)

*um, okay, side note. i went to look online for the link to that Daphne from Scooby Do "My Son Is Gay (or not)" blog post, and it seems to have magically disappeared from the internet. then i see a post from its author basically talking about how she was excommunicated from her church and community for writing the post. WHAT THE CRAP?!?!? okay. THIS is what i'm talking about?!?! is this what happens when you set your kids free to be who they want to be?

dear god, please let the internet self-destruct
before he is old enough to find this
on the world wibe web

by the way, i'm not saying J is necessarily "gender creative" (if that's an official thing), or a "girly boy" (this term is problematic on its face), or is or should be defined by his appreciation for pink glitter, but i do find it really comforting and enlightening that there are so many people thinking and talking about issues like this. it makes me think the interwebs are not a complete and utter waste of our brain cells.

 

Selected Googliography:

 

Can I Make My Son Gay, by Karen Alpert of Baby Sideburns at Chicago Now.com

http://www.chicagonow.com/baby-sideburns/2013/09/can-i-make-my-son-gay/

Pink is for Boys http://pinkisforboys.wordpress.com/

Raising my Rainbow - Adventures in Raising a Fabulous, Gender Creative Son
http://raisingmyrainbow.com
[And I love what she says about photographer/artist Parisa Taghizadeh's project "BOY," "a series of portraits of my son who enjoys 'dress-up.'" Although the project seems to be about a boy’s love for princesses and fairies, it’s more "an inquiry into what little boys are allowed to be before the world changes them and molds them into some notion of what it means to be a man in our society.”]

Sarah Hoffman - On Parenting a Boy Who Is Different http://www.sarahhoffmanwriter.com/

a confession, part II, or, that time they accused me of kidnapping my own child

... SO. yesterday. picked colby jean up from daycare, then headed over to the preschool to fetch jackson jay. the kids were on the playground out in the back, but i went through his classroom to grab his lunchbox, and check his cubby. then i walked out to the playground, holding C on my hip. as soon as J spotted me, he cracked a big grin, called out "Mama!" and walked over to hug my legs. then he stepped back and said, "Mama, look, I got an OWIE! LOOK!" it looked like he had gotten a little sliver. he said it was from a tree, and that he'd even gotten a bandaid (if you achieve bandaid status, that owie is LEGIT ;)) i made the proper fuss as we headed over to the sign-out sheet. his arm was tangled in my skirt the whole time, and he nattered on about his day, that they'd read the Three Little Pigs, he'd "POOPED AT 'KOOL," and get this, WIPED HIS OWN BUTT (allegedly. i never did investigate skid mark status. what happened next kind of derailed the rest of my evening).

as i was almost to the table with the sign-out sheets, a teacher or playground monitor or whoever she was steps in front of me and says, "excuse me. i don't know you. i'm going to need to see some I.D." for a few seconds i just stared at her, stupidly smiling. i thought she was joking or something, it was so strange and surreal. (keep in mind, you have to have a security fob to even enter the building, which i was holding in my hand. also keep in mind that, while we are only a week and a half into the new school year, i have been there to pick him up 6 of the last 8 days, same place, same time, same little orphan annie in tow). then i started to feel very very small. like an underage kid trying to sneak into a club and getting caught by the bouncer. why i felt like this, i do not know, because i was not doing a thing wrong.

i said to her, "oh no! i didn't bring my ID in. but i have my security fob right here? see?"

her: "mmmmhmmm. that's nice. i need to see ID."

what the??? "ummm, well, like i said, i don't have it on me... but... i was just speaking with his teacher Olivia in Room 103. she knows me. could we just go over and ask her to verify that i'm Jack's mom?"

"no. school policy. i need to see your identification. now."

"okay, well, it's in my purse in the car." (what if it hadn't been?! what if it had been lost or stolen, as DM's recently was??? would they have just kept him?! as a ward of the YMCA?! until i got a DMV appointment in, like, DECEMBER?????)

"well then i guess you better go get it."

okay. pause. listen you guys. i am a lawyer. i only mention that because it is probably the profession packed with the highest asshats per capita on the planet. (well except maybe politicians. but most of those are just lawyers who are seeking advanced degrees in dickery. literally and figuratively. anthony weiner, i'm lookin' at you.) as such, i will tell you, i have come across more than my fair share of TERRIBLE people in my life. and yet. this lady takes the cake. i cannot convey in words the level of derission and disrespect that dripped from the handful of words she spoke, but, for the record, this was the SMUGGEST BITCH i have encountered, ever.

anyway. i replied, "okay, i will go get it, but, what happens with J? do i have to just leave him here?"

her: "yes. he's not going anywhere until i see your ID. we'll wait." (she said this last in that tone that your seventh grade science teacher used when you came to class late and were making a commotion getting settled and she felt it necessary to drive home your tardiness with some age old public shaming tactics.)

needless to say, my sensitive son LOST HIS F*CKING SHIT. he was basically like, "i'm sorry, what? i have to stay locked outside this glass security door with this stranger while my mom carries my sister out of the building and i have no freaking clue what in the hell is going on? thanks but i'll PASS!" he starts screaming bloody murder while i am trying to keep my cool. even though my hands are shaking and my vision is blurred i do not want to make matters any worse than they already are. i crouch down and try to soothe him and say "i PROMISE i will be RIGHT BACK, lovey. i SWEAR to you, my sweet sweet boy, i will be back as quick as a bunny. i just have to hop-hop-hop to my car and grab my purse really fast because i forgot it and i need it so i can show this lady i am your mama." this has the effect of calming him -3%. he responds, wailing, BUT YOU ARE MY MAMA! MAMA! MAMAAAAA! PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME!!!!!" UGH. SO heartwrenchingly awful i cannot even explain. but what choice do i have?

so. i stalk out to the car (there may have been actual steam coming out of my ears), grab my purse, and basically run back inside. at this point one of the administrators caught on to the fact that something was amiss so she follows me back out to the playground. i am shaking and i don't speak a word as i hand the girl my driver's license. i couldn't have spoken if i'd tried. she grabs my ID, looks at it for a second, and says, "Your names don't match." i take a breath and respond, "No. They don't. I did not take my husband's last name when we married." her: "Well. That's going to be an issue." me, exasperated, on the verge of tears: "Oh my God. Are you kidding me? Is this a joke? I don't have the same last name as my husband and kids. I'm sorry. It's two thousand and thirteen." Still trying to hold it together for the sake of the kids but the lid's about to come off.

at this point the administrator steps in and tries to unruffle some tailfeathers. she apologizes. THE FIRST TIME ANYONE HAS DONE SO. she says "I am so sorry for the inconvenience." she says, "I understand how frustating this must be, but this is the school-wide policy." she claims, "the teachers have been trained." the teachers have been trained to what?! Be A$$HOLES??? UGH!!! i tell her that i understand the policy and that i appreciate their concern for my son's safety, but that i hope they understand how upsetting it is for my son, and for me, to be handled so carelessly in what is obviously a delicate situation. she says yes, she completely understands, and apologizes again. i have no beef with this woman.

they proceed to bring out a ginormous three ring binder of registration papers and start flipping through it page by page. i ask again if we can talk to Olivia, J's teacher, to settle this mess, or Jane, the other administrator. they tell me both have gone home for the day. J is still crying, though more quietly at this point. he asks why i took Sister when i "left him all alone." i look the girl in the eyes and (snarkily) reply, "the school is only worried about the legal ramifications of me kidnapping you. they don't care if i kidnap your sister." more flipping of pages. i suggest that we go look at the scrapbook we provided per the school's request, the first two pages of which are pasted with family photos, including pictures of ME, the interloper. but no. they need to find the "official paperwork." after about twenty thousand minutes, or maybe three, they realize it's not in the first binder, so they haul out another one, equally thick, and start flipping through that at a glacial pace. finally, FINALLY, they find whatever piece of paper contains sufficient proof that i am not some crazy child-napper. the girl hands me back my ID and says, "There, see? Was that so hard?"

.....

i put that space there to delineate the pause that i took at this point. to breathe. to grasp desperately at the last shreds of my cool. because that is what i do in real life. so that I do not PUNCH HER IN HER EVER LOVIN' HEAD.

i think to myself, YES, you SMUGLY B, that WAS so hard. but i say nothing out loud. she continues, "Well, now we know who you are, so we won't have to do this again." All I can manage is, "No. This will not, ever, happen again."

as we walked out, my cheeks still burned. with rage. and with shame. why? because there were other parents and children around to witness this insanity? no. honestly, i was so upset i had tunnel vision and i could not say with any authority if there was a single other human being around. no. i felt shame because in a few short sentences, she had chopped my sense of self, my sense of worth as a mother, down at the knees. i mean, this lady sees tons of moms, day in, day out. obviously she ought to recognize a mom when she sees one, right? am i defective? am i not "mom material"? was my son's reaction to my arrival lacking the requisite joy reserved for "good moms"? can she tell that both of my kids prefer their daddy? that there was a genetic mutation in whatever chromosome makes some moms love their jobs 24/7? did i have "fraud" stamped across my forehead? maybe (probably) i'm being dramatic. maybe (probably) i'm overreacting. but i was shaking for an hour after this happened. my eyes are still tearing up and my heart is beating audibly in my ears as i write this, reliving that feeling of the instantaneous destruction of a little sliver of my soul. i cannot remember a time when someone has made me feel so small.

my first thought after i had time to process the situation was, there is no way that person has children, because no mother would treat another mother that way. someone with children of her own would know that essentially accusing someone of trying to kidnap her own child is a dangerous, painful accusation to make. okay, i get it, you have a hundred little people to keep track of and it's your job to keep them safe and you gotta do what you gotta do. this is your "policy," and it's probably an okay one given all the crazies in the world. but it is a very sticky situation that requires the utmost deference, tact, and respect. how about start with, "i am SO sorry, i know this is a huge inconvenience and i truly apologize, but, it's only the second week of school, and we are still learning everyone's names and faces, and i'm sorry but i don't recognize yours, so may I please just take a peek at your driver's license just to make extra sure? better safe than sorry!" how about that, instead of an agressive "i need to see some ID," which automatically tears someone down and puts them on the defensive.

maybe she does have kids, she just had a terrible day and i was the straw the broke the camel's back. (maybe i had a terrible day and this was just what pushed me over the edge.) or maybe she can't have kids and working with beautiful smiling/crazy crying children every day is driving her slowly out of her mind. maybe some poor child was abducted on her watch and she will never ever forgive herself, and is spending the rest of her life being hypervigilant, on edge, making sure it never ever happens again. maybe i wronged her in a past life. or maybe she's just a dick. i don't know. all i know is, sticks and stones my ass, her words cut me to the bone.

to bring it full circle. my second (not so) rational thought was, "i'm changing my last name tomorrow." but then, as i started to think about it some more, i was like, No. Because, F.U., YMCA. "Mack N. Cheese" does have a nice lil' ring to it. but. i've gotten this far. i am 33 years old. i have been married for over 5 years. i have been a mother for 3 years. we have been on a dozen plane flights with the kids. i have travelled with them alone. we have left the state. we have left the country. all with our mismatched names and no big hullabaloo. like i said, it's 2013, people! we live in the United States of America, and in California, to boot. thirty five percent of women in their 20s and 30s don't take their husband's name when they marry. it's not like i'm being joan of f*cking arc here. with the continued rise of gay marriage, second (and third and fourth) marriages, blended families, and revised notions of what the "marital union" entails, i believe at some point, sooner rather than later, we're going to have to start coming up with more creative approaches to "the name game." i don't believe i need to have the same last name as my son to be a bona fide mom. i already have my name. my son has his own. my husband and my daughter, too. and they don't always have to match.


**blood is thicker than water, but, not as thick as the name registered
with the county department of health and human services.
or the california department of motor vehicles.
and also the social security administration**