O.K., I have two shows to review today, both fall into the inexplicable category for me, but the kids seem to like them.

Caillou-I despise this show, no, that’s not a strong enough word. I hate this show with the heat of a thousand suns, the fiery quality of my utter loathing and active hatred of this show is powerful enough to melt the paint off the walls. The star of the animated show is an extraordinarily whiny, melon-headed little punk. He’s supposed to be four years old, but exhibits a maturity level far lower than that of his barely-verbal baby sister, Rosie. Caillou’s mother and father are so preternaturally patient and kind and loving and mealy-mouthed that their resemblance to real parents is cursory at best. There’s a cat and some stuffed animals that have their own puppet show thing between the excruciating animated segments. The theme song is terrible, the parents seem like they are on tranquilizers, those grandparents are the most boring grandparents on the planet, there’s a creepy next-door neighbor with a gold tooth and no visible means of support, and did I mention the whining? Caillou is a terrible influence on children, at least on mine. One half-hour of Caillou leads, hop-skip-and-jump, to a week of emulating his atrocious whiny-toned voice. I think the kid gets away with being so whiny all the time because those cartoon parents of his are zonked out on Quaaludes all the time. I find no redeeming qualities in this show except that the kids seem to like it, thank heavens it’s not one of the favorites.

Then there is Yo Gabba Gabba, a children’s show/rave that boasts some very cool guests and artists. Guests like Elijah Woods and Biz Markie and Mark Mothersbaugh. This show is a cross between The Banana Splits, Sigmund and the Sea Monsters, and Dee Lite. And can I just say that I am utterly confused by DJ Lancerock’s hat? During my sophomore year of high school, before we got the new band uniforms, that hats we had to wear were these white, itchy towers of fake fur. DJ Lancerock’s hat looks just like those except in orange. To me, Yo Gabba Gabba just seems like a bunch of hipper-than-thou parents or wanna-bes got together and decided to make a “cool” children’s program. I can’t fault them for this, as much children’s programming is absolute garbage. But sometimes it comes off as self-congratulatory and pretentious in its efforts to not be Barney. 

When I get tired of modern children’s programming I just turn the T.V. over to Boomerang, watch Yogi Bear, and relive the innocent T.V.-viewing of my childhood. And, seriously, children’s-programming-people, why work so hard at being “cool” when we can just turn over to The Jetsons or Scooby Do, Where Are You?

I meant to write about Mother’s Day weekend way before now, but such is life. Friday was my open house at nursing school, where I was inundated with valuable information; and I’m really glad they gave us paper versions of everything or I wouldn’t remember a word of it. Saturday was Monkey’s Day. We dropped Pumpkin off at my folks’ and took Monkey to his first movie theater movie. We took him to see “Speed Racer”, thinking the racing cars would be a good fit for his little racing mind. He made it through about an hour. He liked the huge bag of popcorn and the giant pop he shared with Mama (two potty trips, thank-you-very-much), but the movie was a little intense. About half-way through, he closed his eyes and told me he wanted to take a nap. That means he’s scared and doesn’t want to look anymore. So when we asked him if he wanted to leave he said, “Yes.” So we played an arcade game on the way out and took him to Peppers for lunch.

We sat outside and enjoyed the beautiful weather. And Monkey spilled salsa on my feet. After lunch, we made the much-dreaded trip to the mall. But we didn’t have a choice because that’s where the Apple Store and Sephora are. I got my Mother’s Day presents a day early–an iPod and a nice, long time browsing in Sephora all by myself. Not only did I get my mom some great philosophy products, but I also picked up some perfume for myself, V by Valentino. It’s yummy. Now, I am not the fanciest of girls, but I LOVE Sephora! It’s like a candy shop for grown women.

I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve been a bit of a Luddite when comes to all this computer stuff. That is until I needed to get proficient, fast, for my first online class. Now I have three blogs (how’d that happen!) and pay bills online and shop online and can even put together a pretty good Word document. But the last personal music player I owned was back in probably 1989, a Walkman that played actual tape cassettes. Most of which were mix-tapes recorded for me by sympathetic friends. Now, I am the proud owner of Pinky, a (big shocker) pink iPod nano. She is named Pinky, not only for the obvious reason, but also for Pinky Tuscadero, ex-love of the Fonz. I always loved her, and ached to be that cool. Wow, that’s a lot of pink.

Last night I went to iTunes and bought my first 50 songs. No albums yet. And if I do say so myself, that is the oddest mix of songs; I’ve got everything from Ministry to Mozart. Lot’s of Eighties, some modern electronica, and very dark classical. Oh, and Johnny Cash covering NIN’s “Hurt.” Just odd, I tell ya.

After I downloaded all my new stuff, I played with my new iPod for about 2 hours. I was bouncing around to the music and Hubby started laughing at me. He told me I needed to go to the kitchen and make a sandwich, a la Terminator. I cracked myself up today, because after we dropped Monkey off at school and came home, I went into the kitchen and made myself a sandwich. All while dancing around the kitchen and singing out loud to the songs. But alas, no cybernetic assassins from the future showed up. Just me and my sandwich, and Pinky.

The entirety of my life has been an exercise in hiding my true self from others. From the earliest times I can remember, I have felt alien, outsider, unwelcome. The differences between my family and myself showed up too early to be the result of outside influence. It is as if I am wired differently. There is a word I have always cherished for its appropriateness to my situation: changeling. A changeling is an elfin child that has been traded for a human child (without the human parents’ consent). But instead of elves, I always figured I was taken from some liberal family back east. I imagined that while my family was dealing with this inexplicable little vocal, progressive activist some branch of the Kennedy clan was forced to try and raise a conservative redneck who spoke with a pronounced twang. If I didn’t so closely match in appearance, if not demeanor, my mother and grandmother, I’d swear somebody left me in a basket on their doorstep.

So, from those earliest of years, I knew not to reveal myself to my family. (Not that way, McPervy.) I couldn’t reveal the inner workings of my mind, that thing that is more me than my mere physical existence, to them. They wouldn’t understand. The little I did reveal was met with mockery, derision, or blank stares. I still don’t know why they didn’t support my desire to be a writer; was it some kind of notion that writing wasn’t a real job that paid actual money or complete disbelief that anyone would have any desire to read anything their ridiculous child wrote?

The church we went to (southern baptist, but I’m feeling much better now, thanks) had very specific teachings about the proper place and behavior of women. So I learned not to make waves there, not so I could have an easier time, but out of respect for my father. While he would never want or expect me to submit to any man, he still finds some kind of fulfillment in the church and I wouldn’t want to damage him in the eyes of his peers. But the minute I married my free-thinking, non-churchy-type husband I walked away and never looked back.

School was hell. Short, smart, weird, glasses, my mama dressed me funny, scrawny, needless to say that I was a walking target. And since I was a target, I learned to keep most of my thoughts to myself. Things that a more socially able person could express without fear became verbal bear traps for me. My classmates were brutal, but they were children, my teachers were adults and should have known better. But most could not be trusted, either.

Friendships were problematic, especially with other girls (this has followed me into adulthood). Most other girls and I had nothing in common. I liked books, and the dusty places where they lived, I liked science and still do, I wrote poetry, and mooned over Mr. Spock. Other girls fretted about hair and clothes and told lies about the boys they liked. Even in my friendships with other smart girls there ran an undercurrent of jealousy and petty competition. But since I was scrawny and awkward and goofy and funny, I was many guys’ gal-pal. And frequently, the secrets I kept from my male friends was the depth of my feelings for one or two of them.

I went to college, but not just any college-a southern baptist one! It was here that I honed my skills at hiding pieces of me, and where I was punished most harshly when I failed to do so. I partied and drank no more than half the girls in my pious all-girl dorm, but I didn’t go to church on Sunday mornings. I had had my fill of compulsory church growing up, finally away from home, I saw no need to put on a false face. Big mistake. Because I did not make the proper genuflection to appearances, I was once again alien, outsider, unwelcome. Even my best friend from that time had no problem jettisoning me to preserve her social standing.

I’m actually glad I learned that lesson early in life. Being an unabashed liberal in a red state can get a body fired. (Incidentally, doesn’t “red state” sound kind of commie? You’d think the wingnuts wouldn’t dig on that.) So in the interest of keeping jobs and not causing problems for my husband, I didn’t discuss politics or religion at work.

After my son as born I struggled with post-partum depression and a feeling of isolation. People, with the best of intentions, would suggest that I join mommy groups. But I just knew that I wouldn’t have anything in common with other mothers beyond the fact of having given birth to a child. I was with this child all day, every day and into the nights. I did not want to gather in a coffee klatsch and talk about diapers and nipples and vaccinations and developmental milestones; hell, I was steeping in that at home. I needed a break from my everyday life! But it was very unlikely that I would be able to meet mommies that wanted to talk liberal politics and even-more-liberal religion, not in these parts.

Now, through going back to school myself and sending my oldest off to preschool, I am meeting many other women. But I know that while I can be friends with these other mothers on a certain level, there is still a large part of me that must remain hidden. But I’m used to this, it’s sadly nothing new.

Since I began blogging and reading other blogs, I have found whole big groups of people that share a lot of my values. It’s refreshing and nice to be able to be more of myself with others. But still.

As I have gotten ever deeper into blogging and reading and commenting, I realize that there different parts of me that I hide now. You see, I also have some values that could be considered old-fashioned. Hubby and I got married in our early 20’s, because I’ve always thought that dating is for teenagers. Grown-ups get married. And that you should be careful about who you marry and go into it with the conviction that marriage is for the long-haul. While marriage is a partnership of equals, it is not 50-50; sometimes it’s 60-40, sometimes 20-80. It’s hard work, but rewarding, and should not be entered into lightly.

Oh yeah, and I’m a breeder. I find this particular label offensive. Look, the conservatives are having kids by the truckload because birthing them is easier than converting them. Why should liberals who choose to have children be classified as breeders. I am passing on my liberal, compassionate values to the next generation, my next generation. And I feel that there is need for my unique, wonderful, and flawed genetic material to remain in the gene pool. I believe the quickest way to kill hope and striving, and breed cynicism and apathy, is to promote the idea that the world is already over-crowded and straining at resources so people of good conscious shouldn’t have biological children. Horse hockey! These are exactly the kinds of people who should be having kids! Nature is just as important as nurture in a person’s character. Pass on those positive traits, people! Anyway.

My religious beliefs must also remain largely hidden. Atheists, agnostics, and people of many faiths have found a warm and welcoming home in the tolerant and accepting atmosphere of the liberal movement, and rightly so. I have the utmost respect for people of varying faiths or no faith at all, but I frequently find that I am denigrated for my beliefs. Now I realize that being a christian in a nominally “christian nation” affords me a degree of privilege not available to people of other faiths or no faith at all. I will not force my beliefs on others or denigrate their spiritual choices, nor will I demand respect. But here, at my House, I would like to point out that non-theists feel that a belief in God without proof is irrational (NOT my wording), while their lack of belief is rational. But since you can’t prove a negative, atheists actually have a belief, the belief that there is no God. No different than my belief that God exists. Someday I will share the basis of my belief, my own Direct Personal Experience with the Almighty. But not now.

But something that I think a lot of people are dead-flat wrong about is the space program. I am a strong and vocal supporter of NASA and the space program. A lot of people think that money “wasted” on NASA could be better spent on domestic programs, but I posit that the space program is a domestic program. The innovations made possible by our reaching into space benefit everyone! Money funneled into the space program filters into the private sector. Jobs in the aerospace industry tend to pay very well, giving more people more disposable income to spend in ancillary sectors, providing more jobs to more people. The hope and inspiration that the possibilities of space travel provide translate into a vibrant and optimistic culture. And I’m getting ready to go all Pollyanna on you, joint projects like the International Space Station can foster a sense and reality of cooperation among nations. When everyone realizes that we all share this beautiful blue marble, a warm oasis floating in a cold, black void, then we begin to recognize just how much we all share in common.

Instead of mothballing or scrapping the space program, we need to grow it and make it even more ambitious. There are solutions for our planet’s problems, and if those solutions can be found either in space or in the innovative ideas we come up with to get us there, we must reach further and more aggressively into space. We are citizens not just of nations, or even just of this planet, we are citizens of this universe and we must not allow timidity or fear or worry keep us huddling and scratching at the surface of this ball of mud. We have to take those first steps necessary to take our rightful place amongst the stars. Maybe our planet is becoming over-crowded because we are meant to reach for more. So lets do it. Let us reach for more.

I believe in the inherent nobility of the human spirit, despite how the media tries to dissuade me. And I believe the Almighty created these questing souls in us. We need to fulfill our destinies and become the kind of humanity for which we all have the potential.

Robert Browning expressed these things so well: “Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?” and “Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, the last of life, for which the first was made. Our times are in his hand who saith, ‘A whole I planned, youth shows but half; Trust God: See all, nor be afraid!’” Let’s all take this sage advice because the best is truly yet to be.

Addendum: When I started this post yesterday I had no idea it would turn into such a rah-rah session for NASA. But there it is.

Only I’m not calling them time-outs. It is now Relax Time at the House. Everyone who has spent a whole day, from start to finish, with a child will know exactly what I’m talking about. You know that special time of day, somewhere north of lunch but still south of dinner, when everything goes from simple chaos to sheer hell? Kids are tired, parents are tired of kids being tired, but nobody can stop doing. I. Am. Right. There.

My back is still hurting, but I expected that. I hurt it on Thursday and didn’t go to urgent care until yesterday. Prescription-strength anti-inflammatory=much better, thanks. But of course, it still hurts quite a bit and I’m not as spry as usual. The cheetahs (my kids) know the gazelle is still wounded and are taking full advantage. Hubby went to some kind of Ruby-on-Rails (?) geekery today after my final, so I’m flying solo this afternoon.

So anyway. I found myself absolutely screaming like a fish-wife at the kids. Monkey was driving his plasma car around and picking on his sister; Pumpkin apparently found a box of check stubs and was gleefully throwing them about the House. And Monkey makes sound effects to accompany his fertile imagination, very loud sound effects. Finally it got to be too much; I was afraid I was going to burst a vein with all the yelling. To calm everyone down, mostly myself, I instituted a new tradition: Relax Time.

About the time Pumpkin was born, Monkey went on a nap strike and I have not been able to get him to take regular naps since. And now Pumpkin has decided that naps are for the birds, and I’m not the boss of her, and she’s ready to do everything herself, and I can just take a flying leap about that whole nap-business. So there. The upshot-I don’t get one single moment of quiet until both are asleep at night and by then I’m either studying or falling asleep myself. Oh, they do get quiet sometimes, but that’s when they’re up to no good. I’ll hear these horrific crashes that sound like the walls are falling down only to find that Pumpkin has trashed her room like a rock star. But the mysterious silences are even worse. There’s no predicting what they can come up with in the future, but so far the silence have meant: toddler eating crayons, toddler and preschooler flooding kitchen or bathroom, toddler destroying preschooler’s train set, all items of clothing painstakingly removed from closet and thrown on the floor, playing in the toilet, and the ever-popular throwing of the feces.

Today, being injured and all, I had to have at least a few minutes of peace. Minutes when I didn’t have to drag my aching bones up, minutes when I didn’t have to talk or correct or yell, minutes when I didn’t have to worry. Ah, worry, a mother’s faithful, dreadful companion. To be able to show worry the door, at least for a short time, we all had Relax Time. Both of the kids had to lay in their beds. They didn’t have to sleep-they could read books or play quietly with toys-but they had to stay in their beds for at least 20 minutes. Monkey especially needed it-he had the worst dark under-eye circles I have ever seen.

After Relax Time, they picked out a movie and had a snack. And they’ve both been, if not calm, at least calmer ever since. Pumpkin even fell asleep on the floor while watching a movie. So Relax Time will be a permanent fixture in our days. And maybe, just sometimes, Relax Time will turn into the ever-elusive Nap Time.

Some things the House does right:

1)We bought an existing house, 2)We walk Monkey to school in all but the very worst weather, 3)I quit taking the daily paper, 4)Reusable grocery bags! 5) Buy local food when available, 6) Don’t own a Suburban anymore, 7)Recycle the copious number of magazines that we always seem to have, 8)Re-use plastic bags, 9)HE front-loading washing machine, 10)Fluorescent light bulbs.

Things we do that aren’t so good:

1)Disposable diapers, 2)Buy water, 3)Forget to compost, 4)Forget to recycle everything else, 5)Old house is not well-sealed.

One thing we’ve done that is better for the environment, but is actually done to save money: curtailed or eliminated driving-for-fun.

Something we’ve done that is better for the world, but is actually done to spare our frazzled nerves and keep from pissing off strangers-that-never-did-anything-to-us: Take the kids on a real vacation (we always drive).

Someday(doesn’t everyone say that?), I’ll do better. Solar power for the House, hybrid or electric car, alternatives to air-conditioning for the House, gray water for the yard.

Things I need to do NOW: plant a vegetable garden, put up a clothesline, potty train Pumpkin, recycle everything recyclable, compost all plant matter, remember to turn off the power strips at night.

And I don’t care if this is Oklahoma and it does start getting pretty hot this early, I REFUSE TO TURN ON THE DAD-GUMMED AIR CONDITIONER IN APRIL!!!!!!!11!!one!!!!!!eleven!!!!!!

I really want to get my kids these books, mainly because they need to learn more about my politics than what they hear me grumble about everyday. As a mom, I find it absolutely essential to be politically active. We take the kids with us when we vote and that’s a big improvement over what I grew up seeing. My parents were too busy keeping body and soul together to teach us about political issues and I don’t fault them for it. I do, however, fault them for repeatedly voting against their own best interests when they did vote.

It may be out of fashion to refer to myself as a liberal, more people are using the term progressive, but I like liberal because I see nothing wrong, and everything right, with being a liberal. Especially since I don’t see conservatives caring about the things that are important in my life. Family values? Don’t make me laugh. Whenever somebody on the right bleats about “family values”, it’s code for “we hate gay people.” Check it, you’ll find I’m right. “Traditional family values” is even worse. The gay-hatred still applies but with a goodly portion of woman-hating dolloped on top. These “traditionalists” hate and fear women so much that they believe the only way to save society from the girl-cooties is to severely limit the rights of women.

But they don’t really care about families or children or women. Or old people or disabled people or poor people or people that don’t look exactly like them. As a woman and mother, I know that to vote republican is to vote against the very things that I love-my family, my home, my future, my children’s future, my elderly grandmother, my elderly MIL, my civil liberties, my country. And since I’m a decent human being, I also don’t want to vote against my neighbors, classmates, acquaintances, friends, or strangers in need.

Some mothers feel or claim that they are too busy to be politically engaged, but I believe that in order to be  good parents we are obliged to know as much as we can about the things that could negatively or positively impact our children. If people refuse to research the issues themselves and form their own opinions, then they will just believe what some politician, preacher, or pundit tell them to believe. These people are literally handing over their freedom, their free-will, their minds to someone else. Example: someone who believes that the administration (and political party thereof) that refused to expand SCHIP to cover more uninsured children actually cares about the “babees” involved in reproductive choice is uninformed at best, deluded and foolish at worst. If republicans actually cared about any children whatsoever, that care and compassion would not cease at birth.

Look, moms, if you truly care about your kids (and I know you do), get involved, get informed, get wise. Take the time, make the effort. If every mom in America voted in the best interest of her family and all other families, this would be a much better country for families. We wouldn’t have to make such hard decisions. Leave baby in daycare at six weeks just to work the job the family needs to survive or quit the job and stay home and lose benefits and income; buy insurance the family can’t afford or take a chance that no one gets hurt or sick.

There are many reasons that I am a liberal, but the most important one-my family. I am a liberal because I want my children to live in the best possible world. And I just don’t see that happening in the borrow-and-spend, amoral, corporate welfare, tax cuts for rich white guys, step on the little guy, war-mongering, no civil liberties future the republicans want to take us to at warp speed.

Maybe I should print up the world’s scariest t-shirt: I’m smart, I’m a woman, I’m a mom, I’m paying attention, and I vote.

This post reflects my opinion on recent events concerning the polygamist cult raid in Texas. The thoughts and opinions herein expressed are my own and in no way reflect those of the idiots who want to frame these events as religious freedom or parenting issues. The rape of underage girls is always a criminal act, calling it marriage can’t erase that stain. Fomenting an atmosphere in which this is acceptable is a criminal act; facilitating said rape by “giving” your children over to be raped is a criminal act. The state of Texas absolutely did the right thing in taking children out of this atmosphere. More than that, the great state of Texas did its job, correctly, by protecting their most vulnerable citizens from predatory adults.

Don’t bother commenting if you don’t agree wholeheartedly with my first paragraph. Apologists will not be tolerated.

As a mom, and more so as the mother of a daughter, and as a Christian, this story ignites my outrage. Look, I’m not categorically opposed to polyamoury, provided all the people involved are over 18 and all are giving informed, enthusiastic consent. That, of course, precludes children who shouldn’t even be exposed to this. There may be some people out there who grew up in such a household or who are raising children in such a household, and these people may tell me that everything is just fine and dandy. But I think that’s just too much information for kids to have to process. Honestly, the less I knew about my parents’ sex lives the happier I was. I knew they had the two of us, but beyond that, just ick.

But we’re not talking about consenting adults here. According to this story in The Salt Lake Tribune, many of the women and children removed want to return to the compound. A lot of people are going to seize on this and say, “It can’t be too bad, they all want to go back.” Children want to do all sorts of things that are bad for them and that we, as adults, must keep them from doing in order to keep them safe and healthy. I have a five-year old that would drink pop and fruit-flavored sugar-water all day, but I don’t let him. He also wants to cross the street all by himself, but since he can’t yet be trusted to look both ways and be careful, I don’t let him. I have a three-year old that likes to climb into the kitchen and turn the faucet so that it floods the countertop and pass-through, but I don’t let her. She also likes to eat crayons and would go through a whole box, but I don’t let her. Children do not have the judgment and knowledge necessary to make the best decisions all the time.

Those we might be tempted to think of as the consenting adults in this story, the adult mothers of these children, are neither consenting nor adults. In order to give consent there must be other options open to the person giving that consent. If there are no other options, then it is forced, obligatory. If the person in question cannot even conceive of other options, because of a lifetime of indoctrination, then there is no consent. The poor girl whose cry for help started everything was reportedly told that if she left she would have to cut her hair and wear makeup and have sex with a lot of men. So she could either leave into a strange and terrifying (to her) outside world or endure being raped repeatedly by an older man and be forced to bear his children. When the choices presented to her were equally horrifying, she was robbed of consent.

The other problem with the supposedly grown women who wish to return is the slippery concept of “adult.” What makes a person an adult? It can’t be calendar age alone. Some people are adults at 18, some at 25, some not until they have children of their own. And we all now the perpetual adolescents, the ones who never make that last leap into adulthood. I’m a grown-up, but I can’t tell you the exact moment I grew-up. But looking at it from a parent’s perspective, I can tell you what I want for my own children. Assuming I do a halfway-decent job at parenting, when they leave home and set out to make their fortunes in the world, my kids will be willing and able to make decisions and take the responsibility for those decisions. They will be able to decide on an educational and career path and be happy and fulfilled in their work. They will be able to successfully navigate in an often confusing world that can offer many pitfalls. As for more prosaic concerns, they won’t leave my house unless they know how to: cook a meal from start to finish, sew a garment from start to finish, wash and fold and put away laundry, iron, clean a house, balance a checkbook, make a budget, do minor home repairs, mow a lawn, get estimates for major home repairs, any of a number of things that adults need to know how to do but that I had to learn the hard way. And none of this “man’s job” or “women’s work” nonsense; their father is a much better cook than I, but I’m the one who puts stuff together. I guarantee that not a single woman coming out of that compound knows how to be a functional adult in this society. When you have been told your entire life that you are inherently less-than, that you need to leave all the decisions to the wiser, be-penised people of the community and household, that you are good for nothing except sex, housework, and baby-making–and here’s the kicker–and you buy into it, then you are not a competent, consenting adult.

These poor women have been so beaten-down, so dehumanized, so brain-washed that they didn’t rise up in a maelstrom of maternal fury at the mere suggestion that their little girls be handed over to men to be rape victims. I don’t know if they willing gave up their daughters like lambs to the slaughter, but they sure didn’t try to stop it. And they sure seem anxious to get back to that insular life. To that cult.

When I was growing up in the seventies and early eighties, Jim Jones and Guyana were current events not some distant memory. Cults were a very present danger; and I learned, in church, how to recognize and guard against cults. This polygamist group out west exhibits most, if not all, of the signs of a cult. To call them a sect implies that they are just another facet of christianity but make no mistake, this is a cult and these victims will need to be deprogrammed. It is a cult, call it a cult.

Here’s my deal, no matter how brain-washed a mother may be, if she doesn’t violently repudiate the rape of her children but instead meekly accepts it and even encourages it, she does not deserve to keep her children. By wanting to take these endangered children back into that compound, those mothers are stamping their approval on and actively encouraging the sex slavery of their own children. They know what will happen to their daughters because it happened to them.

My proposal to the state of Texas is: let these children stay with their mothers only if the mothers will undergo counseling and agree not to go back to the cult. If any of the mothers have so little regard for the well-being of their children that they would knowingly take them back into a life of rape and abuse and unending child-bearing, then their children should never be returned to them.

Real mothers don’t “keep sweet”, real mothers fight like tigers to protect their children.

I was never much of a diarist. Even as a self-absorbed teenager, I was no Pepys. Well-meaning people would buy me those little locking daily diaries as birthday presents. They all held such promise, and with each new one would come a resolution to write in it every day. Their pink or red or blue covers, their gilt-edged dated pages, and shiny brass locks with the minuscule keys beckoned me, “Write me, write me!” And I would dutifully answer, “Of course, of course!” I would pop the clasp and open the book, the sharp tang of vinyl newness filling my nose. The pages were so white and crisp with the barest hint of roughness at the edges. But I could never fulfill the promise of each new day, a fresh new page. And what to write? At 12 years old, there was precious little to write about. Nothing I cared to set down for posterity anyway.

I still occasionally find these pathetic relics, discarded like half-chewed bones. I read through them, hoping to find some kind of keen insight into the child I was, but they are void of any meaning. At 12, and 13, and 14, well, pretty much every year of my life ending in -teen, I was a sad specimen. Tiny, pasty, weird, clumsy (but you knew that), adolescence was hell. And I sure didn’t want to write any of that crap down. What was there to say, “Got tied to the jungle gym by my shoelaces, again.” “Told a really funny joke, nobody laughed because I was the one who told it.” “Got picked on for being me, again.” “Ate lunch with the pathetic little band of other outsiders that have become my one refuge in an increasingly hostile environment.” “Mom told me how awful my skin is, again.” (I wish to state for the record, Mother, that I have always had nice skin, teenagers get zits. I still get complements on my skin to this very day, little thanks to you. Yes, I’m bitter much.) “Dad gave me another book on how evil everything I want to do is.” “Am considering a descent into madness to stave off the rising tide of desperation.”

What I ended up writing were things like: what kind of underpants I had on, and how I wished I could be taller. Or the elaborate fantasies I built up about the incredible, graceful, beautiful girl that I wasn’t. As I got older, I would fill little notebooks with pieces of the real me. I realized the diaries were too obvious, too cliched. And as a writer, I despise cliche. And my mother was not to be trusted. She could’ve searched my room for contraband all she liked and I wouldn’t have cared, but there was no way I was going to expose my thoughts to her. The notebooks were nondescript, no one could’ve guessed the tortured thoughts they contained. Just the usual teenage angst, I suppose, but as negative emotions on my part were not tolerated, doubtless those writings would’ve gotten me a visit with a doctor. And to be honest, I was pretty harsh on my parents in those notebooks. These blogs of mine, these are now my little notebooks. But now, I don’t care if my parents read my writings, not that I think they do.

I have said before that my parents made many mistakes with me, all parents do. It’s truly unavoidable. The only thing we can do for our kids is try to learn from the past and not make the same mistakes our parents made. We need to make all new ones. My father was stern and scary and not very involved in my activities. He was, however, overly-involved with the church (and as scary as Daddy seemed, I was jealous of that stupid church!). So I joined in a lot of church activities myself, thinking that maybe he’d find some worth in me. That is a mistake I will not make; if you put religion before your children, you’re doing it wrong.

My mother, a captive of her own miserable upbringing, could not bring herself to be supportive on a day-to-day basis. I can count on one hand the times that I felt she was actually “in my corner”. I think it all goes back to my great-grandfather. He died well before I was born, but by all accounts, he was a vicious, brutal man-at least to my grandmother. My grandmother, in turn, married perhaps unwisely to escape. There weren’t many options for poor women, during the 30’s and 40’s, in rural Oklahoma. Maybe she shouldn’t have married, maybe she wasn’t particularly suited to mothering. Whatever it was, my mother never learned how to be nurturing or supportive.

After she finished high school, my mother wanted to go on to nursing school but my grandmother wouldn’t hear of it. Gammie didn’t have a very high opinion of nurses; actually, she didn’t have a very high opinion of anyone. At her mother’s insistence, my own mom went through some kind of clerical training, which she hated. When I was younger, there were two possible tracks I wanted to take for my future: writer or doctor. My parents never took my writing seriously, never encouraged that talent. When I wanted to go into journalism, my mother insisted that I take typing class, because I would never be able to support myself as a writer.

So, when I wished to pursue my other main interest, science, and go into medicine, my mother informed me that my high school grades weren’t good enough. I would never get into medical school. Because my high school GPA was only 3.2. The sad thing is, I listened to them, to her. I let them affect my future by believing in their low opinion of me. After years of feeling like a constant source of disappointment to them, I managed to disappoint myself.

I get it now, my grandmother signed up for a life she didn’t want to escape her childhood. Maybe to punish my mother for that life, Gammie thwarted her hopes for the future. My mother, having never been taught how to be a supportive parent, and having never gotten over what Gammie did to her, thwarted my hopes for my future. I do not, for one minute, believe that she did this on purpose. But, since she had never been encouraged in any way, she didn’t know how to encourage me. Perhaps she thought her words would spur me on to do better in school, but they didn’t. I gave up on what I wanted and sort of drifted through my first attempt at college.

Now, here I am, finishing college at nearly 40. I will have achieved my goals by the time my children are old enough to begin exploring their own futures. My mother could not reach beyond the mistakes her mother made and be supportive of me. I will not repeat that mistake, I will not drag this grievous error into yet another generation. My children will have my full support in whatever careers they choose to pursue. Oddly enough, it was having children myself that helped heal some of the dings to my psyche.

By the way, my mother went back to college when she was older than I am now. She’s a successful R.N. and I couldn’t be prouder of her. Way to go, Mom!

It only took me 16+ years, but I finally broke Hubby of an extremely bad habit. Or he just got sick of being yelled at over this, whatever. He finally stopped saying, “Now don’t get mad…”

Here’s the deal, people usually say, “Don’t get mad” right before they say something they know or suspect is going to piss you off. It’s a hedge, a way of deflecting the responsibility for an offense onto the offended. “Well, I told you not to get mad.” Grr.

Like most things in life that affect me more than they probably should, this “don’t get mad” thing hews a little too close to (my childhood) home. My parents, bless their pea-pickin’ little hearts, subscribed to the stop-cryin’-or-I’ll-give-you-something-to-cry-about method of parenting. Children’s emotions apparently sent them into some kind of downward spiral, you don’t want to go there, red-eyed fury. Anger was not permitted. Crying was mocked. Stifling and repressing negative emotions were a way of life. I even saw it in their relationship. It probably would’ve been easier to maintain an upbeat attitude if my childhood had not been suffused with constant, undeserved (although I’m sure I had it coming sometimes) criticism. The overriding lesson was: they dish it out, I have to take it, and I’m not allowed to even be upset about it.

So, I am probably hyper-sensitive to criticism and to being told how to feel. I think most women have to deal with this crap as a matter of course. We have to act nice, act like ladies. We have to make excuses for everyone else. Anybody gets to say anything they want about us and we’re supposed to not raise a stink about it. We are expected to be these nice, little, mousy, meek people. We are supposed to know our place. We are not supposed to get mad.

But as an adult, I have a right to my own fury, my own outrage, my own sadness. Do not tell me not to get mad, do not tell me to snap out of it, do not tell me I am making a big deal over nothing! I will get mad if I damn well please. I will bawl like a baby if I damn well please. I will make a scene if I damn well please. I will not be your definition of good, I will not tread lightly, I will not care what the neighbors think, I will not take this lying down!

All of this tends to boil up out-of-control whenever I hear “Don’t get mad”. So the other day, when Hubby came to me and said, “This may make you mad, but….”, I so disarmed and pleased that he might have been able to tell me that he was voting Republican, without damage to life or limb. He acknowledged that what he had to say may cause me to get mad and that my feelings were valid. If he hadn’t been on his way out the door to go to work, I would’ve shown my appreciation. Now, what was that I was supposed to get mad over? Who cares.

First, lest you begin to think otherwise, my husband is a wonderful father. Second, the kids adore their time with Daddy. Third, I love my children but I have no illusions about them, they can try the hardiest of souls.

As a SAHM (stay-at-home-mom), I spend an inordinate amount of time with them, by myself. Weekdays, from too early in the morning until Hubby gets home in the evening, are my shift. Weekends and evenings have always been our tandem-parenting times. But for much of the last two years, I have been going to classes on Saturdays. This semester I added some evenings to my class schedule. I happen to think that these alone times with the kids are good for Hubby, but I think it’s getting to him. Poor man.

You see, he’s outnumbered. There are two of us and we have two kids, so we’re even. Status quo, dead-lock, tie, draw, stand-off. If this makes parenting sound like a battle, good, because often it is. No, more like a thousand little battles. With two parents in the House, we can divide and conquer; when there’s only one of us, they sense the shift in the balance of power. And then like cheetahs cutting a wounded gazelle from the herd, they attack. Now I don’t mean that literally, but they sure do pull out all the stops on the bad behaviors.

The evening class times seem less trying for Hubby, maybe because the cheetahs are exhausted from a full day of cutting Mama from the herd. But he gets the full-on naughty treatment on Saturdays, he literally does not know what to do with them all day. So he comes up with some creative ways to kill time.

While Night School is at the campus closest to our house, my Saturday class is at the campus all the way across town. Hubby and the kids drove me to class (well, Hubby did all the driving) and he told me his plans for the day. First, after dropping me off, they were going to drive all the way back to our part of town to go to his favorite Starbucks ™ and then, drive all the way back to the other side of town to go to the donut shop before heading back to the House. As often happens, plans changed. But he did get the donuts.

I called home during a break, only to hear all hell breaking loose in the background. They were both hopped-up on donuts and the mere act of Hubby talking to me on the phone sent them into a sugar-fueled frenzy. He couldn’t do it, I was talking in one ear and the kids were yelling in the other. He made some noises like trying to get another word in sideways but finally gave up and said he had to go. They cut him from the herd because they had him outnumbered, poor gazelle, I mean guy.