Why We Stayed Home

Why We Stayed Home

This morning my six year old son greeted me with the question, “Do we have to go anywhere today?” He asked matter-of-factly and with only a hint of a whine. It made me pause.

As a stay-at-home-mom with a 2 ½ year old daughter and a 6 year old son, I assume I need to have something planned for every day of the week. After all, my son is home all day, every day during the summer. I figured he needed to do something every day, get out of the house, interact with people who are not me. If I kept him and his sister home, wouldn’t they get bored? Wouldn’t they destroy my house? Wouldn’t they destroy each other? Wouldn’t they destroy my sanity?

At my son’s request, we did nothing yesterday. The only place we went was to visit my mother-in-law at her work because we had to drop something off. The kids didn’t even get out of the car. Talan, my son, didn’t even change out of his pajamas and I’m fairly certain he didn’t put shoes on at any point. After a late breakfast, we colored together. Then we headed outside where my daughter “watered” the plants, trees and sidewalk. My son and I made an entire city out of chalk for his Spider-Man figurines to use. We had a relaxing lunch followed by naps. When they woke up, we headed back outside for my chalk drawing. By the time my husband came home, we were covered in chalk and smiles. It was one of the best days we had had all summer long.

Was I wrong? Do I really need to have something planned for every day?

When Matt and I moved our family to Minnesota, we were overjoyed at all the new opportunities our kids would have. Having previously lived in western North Dakota where the only excitement for kids was parks, we couldn’t wait to expose them to all kinds of new things---zoos, museums, concerts, festivals, etc. In my haste to make sure my kids experienced all the opportunities I didn’t, I forgot how awesome my own childhood was. While I may not have had splash pads to go to or lakes or museums, I had a wonderful time riding my bike around town with my friends. We loved to play backyard baseball or cops and robbers (a Ziploc baggie of Oreos was our treasure and my brother used to yell at me for eating them instead of protecting them from the “robbers”). We made our own fun and had a blast. Why couldn’t my kids do the same?

The answer is, of course my kids could. They proved they could when they asked to stay home. And my kids, just like myself, need breaks from time-to-time. Some days are best spent at home, doing nothing but relaxing and hanging out. However, I still believe that if we spent the majority of our days at home, my house would get destroyed and my two kids would not get along as well as they do now. Kids need to get outside, need interaction with each other, and, most importantly, need to be kept busy.

We will continue to visit the zoo once a week as well as the library and go to parks and splash pads. We will also make sure to spend time running errands so that they know the entire summer does not revolve around them. Some days we will spend at home playing or even cleaning the house.

Of course, all kids are different. What works for my family may not work for yours. But I think a blend of activities and imaginary play is just what this family needs. 

Mom-ing with Depression & Anxiety

Ever since I can remember, I have struggled with depression and anxiety. I was diagnosed with it at age 10 but I am positive I had them before then, maybe they were not as well developed or as acute but I am sure they were there.

As I matured and grew up, I handled my depression and anxiety on a variety of levels. I went through denying it, not taking my medicine to where I am now, compliant and accepting of my disease and doing everything in my power to handle it correctly. Still, living with depression and anxiety is hard, one of the hardest things I have ever done, and parenting with depression and anxiety is hands down the hardest thing I have ever done.

If you are not familiar with the diseases, let me break it down for you. I have chemical depression, meaning my depression is not or was not caused by an event (i.e. a death or tragedy) but rather by my brain's inability to make enough serotonin and to properly re-uptake the correct dosage of chemicals. Thankfully, modern medicine allows me to take a pill (the size of an elephant tranquilizer) that gives me enough serotonin to function on a daily level.  But here's a secret few people know...while the pills make me enough serotonin, they do not "cure" the mental illness. I take my pills religiously yet I still struggle with my depression and moods on a daily, sometimes hourly, basis. Add my anxiety to it and it is no wonder some days I do not want to get out of my bed.

Being a mom, I want the best for my kids and I want to be here for kids, for everything. Unfortunately, my mental illness makes that very difficult. Most days I can handle my diseases with the practice and ease of someone who has lived with them for 20 years. Other days, it cripples me. And on those days I feel as if I am not only failing as a woman but as a wife and mother.

My depression does not always come in the same form but at some point I will start crying over what I would normally view as silly things (such as a Johnson & Johnson commercial). I also take it to the other extreme and have zero tolerance for anything---like whining or back talk or not doing exactly what I want without me having said anything. But the worst is when I am not feeling anything. That's when I know the depression has really got it's talons in me. When I do not feel anything, I know it is bad. I know it is bad and I know that I am suffering from depression yet there is little I can do. I lie in bed, knowing I am being strangled by the mental illness, I know I am ignoring my children and husband, I know I have responsibilities I am shirking yet there I lie. The problem with having depression AND anxiety is that I do not simply lie in bed under a metaphorical grey cloud but rather I lie in bed having panic attacks over what I am ignoring.  Sometimes my crippling anxiety is a good thing as my anxiety over takes my depression, forcing me to get up and take care of myself and my family. Other times my depression wins and I am too exhausted-mentally, physically, emotionally-to do anything.

Being a parent is hard. Being a person with mental illness is hard. Put those two together and it makes daily life complicated, difficult, and very trying for everyone in my life. I always feel bad when I surface from my depression tsunami. My husband steps up and take cares of the kids along with the household chores for which I am grateful yet it does not relieve me of the guilt I feel for slipping down the slope of sadness. (Wow, that was a lot of alliteration.)

The only thing that matters when I get depressed is that I recover, that I pull myself out of it. I have to constantly remind myself that my life is not my life anymore, it is my husband's life, my son's life, my daughter's life. I cannot stay in bed all day. They need me and I sure as Hell need them. I can lie in bed for an extra hour or until noon on the bad days but I have to get out of bed. I have to quell the depression and anxiety because I have other people to care about.

It is hard. Every day is hard and some days are near impossible. But I still manage, some days I manage better than others but I still manage. I still get out of bed. And the days that I jump out of bed, the days that are beyond wonderful, those days keep me going. Those days keep me from staying in bed on the bad days. For other mothers and fathers out there struggling with mental illness, remember the good days. Remember this is not just your fight anymore. Remember that the bad days do not last. And remember that you are strong, you have made it this far and you will make it farther. Just get out of bed. Go hug your kids. And know you are not alone.

Why I Hate My Body

Every day there is an article somewhere criticizing some woman's body. And every day there is an article somewhere written by a celebrity defending her body and/or her post-partum body. Here's my take, I hate my body and without realizing it, my body image issues affect my children more than they affect me. Why? I'm so glad you asked...

I have had body issues since fourth grade. FOURTH GRADE, that puts me at nine years old. A nine year old (in 1994) should only be concerned with Lisa Frank merchandise and four square rules. She should NOT be concerned with her body. I thought I was fat (I was chubby but not obese). Kids are cruel, at all ages sadly. I remember being in fifth or sixth grade and a boy asking if the reason I wore jeans with an elastic waistband was so that they would still fit me after lunch. My brother was extremely skinny which didn't help matters because he, too, mocked me frequently. I don't blame him, he was my older brother and would have found some reason to mock me. At least he teased me for something I could control...teasing me about the size of my nose or personality would have been awful.

Obviously it didn't get better from there. Middle school saw me becoming bulimic and anorexic. I didn't care what it was doing to my teeth or how it would effect my body long term (yes I was knowledgeable), all I cared about was being thin.This problem went with me to high school and, of course, college. I gained the Freshman Fifteen, basically through a diet of beer and cereal, and really hated how I looked. I was no longer a nice size 8 but a size 12 and couldn't handle looking myself in the mirror.

The thing with my eating disorder was that it was strictly about eating. I wanted to be skinny but didn't want to work out. I hate working out. HATE IT. I watch people run and lift and think there must be something clinically wrong with them. How can a person enjoy running until they can't breathe? It baffled me then and it baffles me today. The only kind of exercise I have ever enjoyed is dance. I love to dance, like ballet and jazz. I also love to swim. Swimming I get because it's not hard on the body and for some reason, it never seems like exercise. Either way, if I'm ever chased by a bear, I will probably end up dying after running for five minutes.

So I ate unhealthy. When I was in rehab, I was a size 5/6 and eating less than 500 calories per day. That's per day. People have eaten entire meals worth more than 500 calories. My diet was 20 almonds and three pieces of cherry licorice. Clearly, I was not healthy. BUT I was skinny and that's all that mattered.

As I grew up with my disorder, I obviously never saw anything wrong with it. It's my body and I could do with it what I wanted. Now that I'm a mom, things have changed. Suddenly, my body issues aren't just MINE, they are my kids' as well. Every time I look in a mirror and make a disgusted face, my kids see that. When I turn sideways and try to suck in my gut, my kids see that. When I eat unhealthy, my kids see that. And what happens when kids see you doing something? They imitate you, good or bad, they don't care because they just want to be like you.

As a parent, you are never alone in anything. There is always someone watching you, learning from you. Kids truly learn from what you do, not what you say. No matter how often I tell my kids to love themselves, love their bodies, eat healthy and exercise, it won't mean a thing if I don't live what I preach.

My kids are the best thing that every happened to me for a variety of reasons. One of those reasons is their ability to show me how I truly am. Every time Lucy imitates me, I see myself through her eyes. I do not want my daughter or son to grow up with body issues and the main step I can take to prevent them from low self esteem is to have high self esteem for me. By loving myself, by accepting myself, I can show them how to love and accept themselves.

There are many things I still want to teach my kids. One thing, one priority is to teach them to love themselves, that they are wonderful just the way they are. I also want them to be healthy (doesn't every parent?). In order for them to be healthy, I need them to eat right and exercise. While my kids are picky eaters, my son more than my daughter, they still manage to eat healthy. They eat healthy because now I eat healthy. They exercise daily (mainly they do cardio as they run away from me when I'm telling them to brush their teeth and get dressed) and they see me exercise (not daily, I haven't changed that much and when I do exercise I sure as hell am not running). The best thing I can do to ensure my kids are healthy is to keep myself healthy. And now I'm doing that. But never by running. Ugh.

Life's Hardest Questions

Before I had kids, I used to ponder tough questions like: how can people be racist, how does a fax machine work, did OJ really kill Nicole, why is Congress being paid for doing nothing, can love exist without hate. You know, semi-intelligent thoughts. Since I now have two kids and stay at home, my intellectual level has dropped dramatically. The questions that I now ponder on a daily basis are, well, mind bending but not in an intellectual way. So here they are...the questions that plague parents such as myself.

Why do Daniel Tiger and his father wear sweaters and converse shoes but no pants?

How come Mickey's Clubhouse has to disappear? Are they worried about burglars? Where do they go when they aren't in the Clubhouse?

How dumb is the Man in the Yellow hat?

Why the trains on Sodor need engineers? Can't they steer themselves?

Why is Candance, Phineas and Ferb's sister, bald in the front?

Why does Dora's monkey, Boots, wear boots?

Why do the PJ Masks kids fight crime at night? When do they sleep? Aren't their parents checking on them, wondering where they are?

Now, are these questions important? Ah hell no. But when you are invaded by cartoons everyday, they start to make you think. Mainly, are the people who created these high?

Help. Basically help. I need more intellectual conversations or I may start finding answers to my questions above and when that happens, I'll know I have completely lost it.

How to Raise Children

When I was younger, I often played with dolls as did most kids my age. And by play with dolls I mean I changed their outfits, strolled them in my Fisher Price stroller then left them in the middle of the room for my parents to trip over. Clearly, I was training to be a spectacular mother.

The thing about parenting is you can never be prepared. You can take classes before your baby is born, you can take classes from "experts" on children's behavior while your kid is growing but none of it truly prepares you for being a parent. I talk with my friends who are parents, my aunts and mom and receive plenty of advice-some good some not-yet I still have no clue what I am doing as a mother.

Every day life is hard for kids. It's hard for everyone. I think it's harder for parents because we see our children struggle with daily life and we don't know how to explain it to them because we ourselves don't understand it. My oldest is six years old and still blissfully unaware of most of life's cruelty. I was spared trying to tell him about the Orlando shootings because it wasn't news on Nick Jr. or PBS. I was further more spared having to explain to him about the Dallas police shootings. But what happens when he does ask? What will I say? Or am I being a negligent mom because I haven't mentioned the previous news stories to him? What is the right way?

I dread the day my son asks me why people of other races are treated differently because other than telling him, "Well, some people are simply assholes." I don't know how to answer. In his eyes, everyone is the same, they are simply judged on whether or not they will play with him. It makes no difference what race someone is, their religious affiliation, their political affiliation, their income...really none of it matters as long as you want to play. He'll even teach you all about Star Wars and Ninja Turtles if you aren't fortunate enough to know EVERYTHING about them. I love his innocence and I think that that is what makes me hesitate to shatter is bubble.

As parents, none of us really know what we're doing. As a woman, I barely know what I'm doing. I'm trying to do my best. I love my kids, I teach my kids, I try to show them what is right and what is wrong. But I struggle to teach them about how others' view right and wrong. How can I tell them I know what's right or what is best when clearly these people who are shooting others and hating others believe that they are right and what they are doing is good?

One day, sooner than I would like, my son is going to come to me and ask why other people hate certain people or why someone got shot because of their race or why some other kid called someone a racial slur, and I won't have any good answer. All I will be able to tell him is that race doesn't matter to us and it shouldn't matter to anyone but unfortunately, some people are filled with hate and anger and they cannot control it. All I will be able to tell him is that I think those people are wrong and that no one should be judged by things they cannot control. All I will be able to tell him is that we should accept and celebrate other's differences. And, hopefully, I will be able to show him through my own actions that none of that matters; all that matters is how someone treats others and still, we should be kind to those people. I will hopefully be able to show him that love trumps hate and that what this world, now more than ever, needs is love. I will hopefully be able to show him that the only enemy we face is hate.

No, I do not know if my way is the best way but I do know that I am trying my best. I am trying to make my children into adults who will better the world. I'm going to mess up, I'm going to make mistakes but hopefully my children will know that I love them, that I try and that while I may not know everything, at least I know how to love and accept others.

The Stanford Rapist

If you haven't heard by now, The Stanford Rapist is infamously known in the US. In January 2015, he raped a young woman. This March he was found guilty of three different accounts of sexual assault. He faced a maximum of 14 years in prison. A judge, however, gave him 6 months in county jail with probation as he-the judge-feared a harsher sentence would have a severe impact on Brock Turner, the rapist. His father wrote a letter to the judge, detailing his son's accolades and, basically, how wonderful he thinks he is.

I haven't wanted to write about this. I haven't even wanted to read about it. I am not ashamed to admit that I gloss over anything that has a headline that includes rape or rapist or sexual assault. Is it because I like to deny the horrors of society? Is it because I can't face the truth? Is it because I think that the victims are crying "rape" just to get out of being called a slut? Nope. It's simply because if I have to read about a rape it just brings me back to the day I was raped and I can't face that easily.

The cats. That's what I remember. I remember the cats on my bedspread. My parents had bought me the bedspread and sheets when I was in 7th grade. I desperately wanted a kitten so instead of buying me a cat they got me bedding with pink and purple cats on it. Those cats are what I remember most clearly about my rape. Isn't that strange? Once meant to be comforting and cute, that comforter is what first comes to mind when I recall my rape.

It's strange that I remember those cats because I wasn't raped in my own bed. I was raped at his house, in his bed. So why do I remember the cats?

On March 27, my ex-boyfriend was in town. I was 19 years old and thought that this ex was the moon and stars in my world. We had broken up months before and I had tried to get over him, all while realizing he was drunk 99% of our relationship, sleeping with numerous women, and was basically mind controlling me. Regardless, he was in town and I wanted to see him. We were at a friend's house, day drinking (it was a Saturday). By the time nighttime rolled around, he was drunk (or drunker) and I was more than a little intoxicated. We started fooling around when I realized that I was not going to get back together with him. I told him no, we couldn't do this, that he was bad for me, that I was over him. He took it well (I'm sure he had someone else lined up to take over when I left). I had to get out of the house. But the problem was I was drunk, couldn't drive the five miles to my house and too embarrassed to call my parents for a ride plus it was nearing midnight. I made, what would turn out to be, the wrong call. I text a guy I had been flirting with, asking if I could come over to escape the drama of the current house I was at. He only lived a block away, I felt that I could drive that block.So that's what I did.

I don't remember driving over there or going into his house. I remember him pouring me a drink but I don't know what it was. I remember Scooby Doo was on tv, funny how the little things stick with you when something traumatic happens but how big things, like how my clothes came off or how he put himself inside of me, escapes my memory.

I remember the pain. I remember trying to shove him off but feeling as if I couldn't even move my arms. Honestly, I don't know if I feebly shoved him or if I only thought about shoving him, I was so drunk (and possibly drugged). The next thing I remember was waking up, him telling me to leave. Confused, I drove home, unsure of what had happened.

When I got home, I immediately went to my bedroom and sat down, on the cat bedspread. I'm not sure how long I sat there, could have been five minutes or could have been two hours. I just sat there, trying to piece together what had happened, tracing those cats on the bedspread. I traced the pink one, the lavender one, the slightly blue one. Over and over I traced those cats. At some point, my then best friend came over. Apparently, I had called her. She came over, listened to me sputter out my story. I know I didn't look at her, already ashamed of myself. I looked at the cats, I traced the cats, I did that over and over again while I told her what had happened. Quickly, she told me to report it, to tell my mom. She didn't judge, just took control while I remained catatonic.

I called my mom but it was eventually my brother's girlfriend that took me to the ER. My parents would later join us. I had a rape kit done and a detective came in to talk with me. I was given a Plan B pill along with a huge shot to hopefully prevent any STD he might have given me.

What happened next? Well, somehow I was convinced not to press charges. Why? Because like almost all rape cases, it would be a he said/she said case. The case would not be about the rape but rather my behavior (not his, mine) and my character would come into question, again mine, not his. Could I handle that? No, absolutely not. I was already ashamed of myself and my behavior, convinced that no one would believe me. No, I would not and could not press charges.

The detective, bless his heart, went and had a nice little chat with my rapist, warning him to stay away from me and where I lived. The problem was we both went to the same college, a TINY college where it was impossible for me to avoid him. A guy, a GREAT guy, who I had been seeing off and on since I was 18, comforted me (literally just held me in his arms) for the two months following. He also went with a few of his friends to, um, sternly talk with my rapist, warning him away from me. None of the warnings worked, or they did but our town was too small to successfully avoid one another. The day he came into the restaurant where I was a waitress, I went into such a severe panic attack I had to leave. I never filed for a restraining order, the next semester I went to a college 10 hours away and became panicked any time anyone was too close to me physically. I drowned myself in beer, gin and vodka. I slept around more than an average college sophomore, convincing myself that if I put little respect into the act of sex, if I belittled it, then I could easily minimize what had happened to me. Raped? Psh, that's nothing! Sex is nothing! Having someone violate me in the most intimate way possible meant nothing because sex meant nothing. At least, that's what I tried to convince myself.

I later found out that my rapist left town with a message from the Chief of Police to never return (I wasn't his only victim, I was not his first, either). Years later, he would apply for a job in that town only to once again be unwelcomed by the Chief. I have never seen him again, not since that day at the restaurant. I have jumped at numerous shadows, seen him in numerous strangers.

My rapist got away with half-veiled threats. What did I get away with? Cats. I got the cats and the trauma that fueled my alcoholism for years. I've come across a lot of difficult things in my short 30 years---addiction, abusive relationships, failure on numerous levels, childbirth, being a single parent, severe depression and PTSD (thanks to the rape)---but nothing, nothing, is more difficult than trying to forgive someone who never apologized.

My ex boyfriend, the one I fled from the night, never found out what happened to me after I left him. Honestly, it didn't concern him. He wasn't the one who raped me after all. He did, however, make amends to me (he was busy climbing his 12 steps) for how he treated me during our relationship. That forgiveness came easy, probably because I understood alcoholism better than any one sober person.

The rapist, though? I don't know how to forgive him. I know it will bring me peace and it will benefit me more than him. For all I know he doesn't think he did anything wrong, like Brock Turner or Brock Turner's father. I still cannot find it in myself to forgive him. Or to stop fearing him.

I don't know how the trial would have played out if I had pressed charges but I know that if he had been found guilty and let off with a 6 month county jail and probation sentence, I would have either drunk myself to death or ended up institutionalized. I would have looked at the judge and thought, "Oh, apparently ungranted access to my vagina is only worth 6 months and probation." A sentence that light would have devalued me, devalued my rights's as a human being, I would have felt worthless and rightly so.

Women are out there fighting for equal pay, the right to our own bodies, the right to been seen equal to men. It's hard to believe that while a woman can now be a CEO or hold any position a man can but only be paid a fraction of what a man makes. It is hard to believe that while a woman can now be the DNC nominee for president, entry into her vagina only costs 6 months in a county jail.

I don't know what will happen to the young woman Brock Turner raped. I hope she gets help. I hope she goes to therapy and learns to heal. I hope she can one day find it in her heart to forgive him, his father, and that judge.

But what I really hope is that society wakes up. I hope that women and men everywhere become outraged at the sentencing. I hope that women and men everywhere see how lightly Brock Turner got off and become angry on behalf of women everywhere. I hope that something, anything, good comes from this. Because if not? If society just says, "Hey, he's white and privileged, she was drunk, that's what happens." then women everywhere become victims.

Stand up. Be heard. Fight for your right to your body because the right to enter your vagina, to become part of you, to have someone join with you, that shouldn't cost anything, let alone a mere 6 months in county jail. It should be invaluable, priceless. Why? Because you are invaluable. You are priceless. Never forget that and never forget that no matter your age, your race, your social status, or sexual preference, no one has the right to assault you no matter if you're drunk, sober, sexually active, or, what society calls, a tease. It is your body. It is your right. No one else's.

The Problem with Sobriety

I love being sober. I wake up feeling great, I always know what I did the night before and I am never hungover. It's fantastic. Except for one thing.

You know what ruins sobriety? Drunk people.

When you are drunk, you love drunk people. Hell, when you're drunk you love EVERYONE (or hate everyone, it really depends on what type of drunk you are). When you are sober...you have NO tolerance for drunk people.

Drunk people are, to put it simply, the worst. I cannot stand drunk people. Perhaps it's my penance for being drunk so often around others that now I am forced to deal with drunk people while being sober. I'm sure some of you can relate, whether you've been pregnant and forced to be sober or the DD, if you've been around drunk people and haven't been drinking, you can empathize with me.

Why are drunks the worst? For one, they are loud. Obnoxious. They have zero filter and while they are busy being 110% brutally honest with you, you are trying desperately to cling to social decorum and biting your tongue because while they can seemingly get away with saying whatever (due to the booze) you can't. It's the definition of unfair.

I've been told that my intolerance to drunk people is ridiculous. After all, almost everyone gets drunk. My question is why? I understand why college kids do, its the social norm, you're experimenting, you're partying, it's peer pressure. But why do 30 year olds need to get drunk? Why does anyone over the age of 25? I'm not talking about getting tipsy, I'm talking about drunk. Why are you not capable of pacing yourself accordingly? Why do you need to drink two bottles of wine at a party? Why do you feel the need to drink so many beers you vomit? How is that fun? How is having a hangover (at any age) fun?

I'm an alcoholic, I drank to the point of blacking out every time I drank. Because I"m an alcoholic. I have no control over my drinking. But for those of you who aren't alcoholics, why drink that much? Even on occasion? Why get so drunk that you feel sick that night or the next day? What is the point?

Drunk people are annoying beyond measure. I have met one person who is pleasant drunk...a friend of my husband who has an unnatural talent of being able to drink 12 whiskeys and act the exact same way as when he hadn't had anything to drink. Now him drunk, I don't mind. Everyone else in the universe, yes I have a problem with.

Drunk people are annoying because they are either crying over their problems, talking within a centimeter of your face, talking too loudly, repeatedly asking you the same question, offended by everything you say, talking about you literally behind your back...it's the worst. Perhaps the reason I have zero tolerance for drunk people is because, well, they suck. Maybe I am being ridiculous but I don't think it's unreasonable to expect people to act their age. I find it incredibly juvenile and immature when people get drunk. It is obviously not their first time drinking and it's obviously not their first time drinking THAT MUCH, do why are you doing it? To have an excuse to act a fool? To have an excuse to say whatever the heck you want? To have an excuse to act however you want?

Drunk people baffle me, infuriate me, and I cannot stand them. Thank God I am no longer one of them.