World Prematurity Day 2011

My twins were born 2 months premature.  Today, I planned to share their story, but, when I stop to think about it, I'm too bitter.  Nearly 10 years later, the anger behind nearly losing my girls hits me too hard.  We're finally at a point where I no longer dread their birthday and "Homecoming Day" goes by almost unnoticed.  Still, I hate that we have a story to tell.  I hate that others have stories with endings not nearly as happy.  

So here, I'll leave you with my bitterness, my anger, and my post from this day last year.  

In an attempt to put a more positive spin on it, I'll share this related story about how one nurse made all the difference in the world and how I'll be forever in her debt.  

Tuesday, Bloody Tuesday or Wave Your Hands In the Air (Ow!)

And the hits just keep on coming.  

Today, while carrying boxes of winter clothes out from the basement, the doorway attacked.  It tore some skin off and hurt like crazy.  It also bled like crazy.  So of course, my first rational thought after, "OW!  Freaking OW," and a long stream of expletives was, "Oh please don't bleed on the clothes.  I don't need more wash to do."  

My priorities, they're baffling.  Then again, so too is the amount of laundry we produce.  

The slashes are on my pointer and middle finger and the knuckles which made it impossible to use bandaids.  So my left hand got festive by dressing up as a mummy.  I used gauze over the bleeding mess and wrapped it with tape.  I have photographic evidence of what a lousy job I did.  

Later in the day, while food shopping, I pulled a little piece of skin from my ring finger.  You all know where this is going. Itty bitty piece of skin = fountains of blood.  It bled like MAD.  Of course, I was in line to pay at the time.  Of course I was.  The only time something like that happens is when you have to interact with the general public.  I hid my bloody stump of a hand and paid.  

Picked the big kids up from dance, came home, started to unload the bloody groceries and the fridge door put up a fight.  Long story short (I know.  Too late), I got my same poor abused ring finger (still covered in blood by this point) caught in the fridge door.  

I just have two things to say:

1. Thank G-d I'm right handed
2. Does anyone have a plastic bubble I can borrow?  

Mothers and other lesser creatures

I recently spent time with a friend who confided that her husband tells her repeatedly that she doesn't do anything all day because he works outside in the heat and she stays home with their two year old.  He threatens to kick her out of their house because, in his mind, it's really only his since he's the only one who makes any money.

There was a list of other hateful things she hears often which tear her down for being a mother.

It's only this Mother's Day, after hearing about those hateful things, that I truly appreciate my husband's views on motherhood.  Even in situations not nearly as extreme as that first friend, I've heard stories from other friends about snide remarks their husbands have made or expectations they have which clearly show they don't believe their wives are their equals.

I've never heard a negative remark from my husband about my lack of a paycheck (and I should point out that, before we had kids, my salary was the highest of the two).  He doesn't expect me to serve him food, much less serve him before myself.  Hell, he doesn't even expect me to cook dinner (he's the better cook).  He is not at all the type to refer to parenting the kids as "Babysitting."  Even though he works full-time outside the home, we split the cleaning duties.  He changed diapers (cloth diapers even) and gave baths without complaint (well, without excessive complaints about the diapers at least).  When he was still home, bedtime stories were his thing.

I've had the luxury of forgetting how some folks view mothers in a negative light.  My husband respects me and motherhood and for that, I'm particularly thankful, this Mother's Day more than ever before.

###

My One & Only(aka Arming the Drama Llama With Lightsabers)

Dear Blogosphere,

Let's think twice before using the word, "Only."  That word can be a vicious word.  It can cut things and people down.  It can be an attempt at minimizing.  

When you say, "It's only X," what you're saying (or at least what others are hearing) is, "X doesn't really matter."  

Military wives understand "Only," in a way no one else does.  They also actively campaign against it.  

When my husband was deployed for the first time, I mentioned to a civilian friend that he was scheduled to be gone six months (it was later extended).  She said, "Oh, that's not bad.  It's only six months.  My friend's brother was gone for a year."  I cringed and thought to myself, "Yes, it IS bad.  It sucks that her brother was gone for that long, but that suckage doesn't outweigh mine."  

During that deployment, at the base playgroup with my twin toddlers, another mom's husband was away for a month.  She started to vent to me and then stopped herself saying, "I shouldn't complain.  He's only gone for a month.  Yours has been gone for a long time."  

Military wives don't let military wives say, "Only."  I stopped her and told her a month sucked too.  Six months sucks.  Twelve months sucks.  This isn't a suckage contest.  We can all appreciate that they suck and bitch accordingly.  This isn't a contest.  There is no scale.  No one is weighing your suckage against mine.  

Luckily, early in that deployment, at the same playgroup, I had tried the exact same thing myself and learned my lesson.  Another woman's husband had been gone for a while and I started to complain.  I then apologized and said, "Your husband's been gone X months (I've long since forgotten).  Mine only left a month ago.  I shouldn't complain.  You have it much worse."  She stopped me and told me, "No.  Don't do that.  Deployments suck.  They all do no matter what."  

If something is difficult, it's difficult.  Don't "Only," it for someone else.  

Yes, yes, I hear your objection.  True, some folks are drama llama jockeys.  Everything is hugely dramatic to them even when it doesn't seem that way to others.  You get the urge to "Only," their constant drama.  "It's only a paper cut.  An ER visit really is unwarranted."  You know what?  Let them charge on ahead in their drive-by drama llamaing.  Your "Only," isn't a lasso.   Your "Only," isn't going to reign in their charging drama llama and calm it the hell down.  If anything, it'll give their drama llama a lightsaber with which to fight you (and I hear llamas are awesome with lightsabers).  It'll also give the dramatic one more fodder for the drama and everyone knows the drama llama does so love fodder (it's delicious with a nice white wine sauce).  

So, before you tell someone, "It's only..." think twice.  Picture a dramatic llama wielding a lightsaber and hopefully, you'll be laughing too hard to continue on with that thought.  

Remember, every time you use, "Only," a drama llama gets a lightsaber.  

###

"I got my feet on the ground and I don't go to sleep to dream."

thirty-seven / threesixtyfive a photo by Noukka Signe on Flickr.

We had some potentially good news.   I'm trying to be calm and logical about it all, but apparently, my brain has shared this news with my subconscious which took that news, put logic through the shredder only to then spit on the scraps.

In all 6 months we've been apart, I don't think I've a single dream about my husband.  This is odd for me.  During his deployments, he visited my dreams, not on a very regular basis, but on several occasions.  Overall, those visits were welcomed, but, every once in a while, I'd wake from one of those dreams & it would take me a moment to realize our reunion only existed in my mind.  Go ahead and give me a bit of comfort and happiness and snatch it away quickly in the sunlight.  Stomp on my heart, why don't ya?

Apparently, my subconscious has taken this vague possibility and decided that the next step must be reunion.  

I didn't even dream about anything terribly obscene (:::waving meekly at my big brother and sisters who I know don't want to hear anything TMI about their baby sister:::).    I can't really remember much about the actual events of the dream.  I just remember him.  I remember purposely touching his skin and I remember his arms around me.  

And the next thing I remember was completely unrelated.  I was in an SUV driving off a cliff with a whole host of people, (none of them my husband).  When I woke up, I was shaken by the car off the cliff to the point that it took me a while to even remember I had even dreamt about my husband.  

Ever since then, though, I can't shake it.  I can't shake that longing for him (and, for once, my mind's not even in the gutter when I say that).  I can't reason with myself.  "Yes, yes, that's all well and good and will happen in time, but there's a chance it won't happen NOW."  In response, my heart shoves its fingers in ears and chants, "La la la la.  Can't hear you."  

I've actually found my conscious mind feeling more and more pessimistic about this prospect.  Maybe it's to try to counteract this hopefulness that has taken flight (prematurely) in my dreams.  I don't want to be disappointed.  I don't want to be the only one in our big bed at night.  I don't want to dream.  I don't want to be alone.   I don't want this chance to pass us by.  

"Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling into at night. I miss you like hell." -Edna St. Vincent Millay

If drama is a llama than everyday life is a narcoleptic sloth with insomnia.

Picture stress as a person.  Better yet, picture it as a gigantic monster of some sort.  I'm not talking about Godzilla.  That's too clean and dry.  Picture something slimier.  It oozes.  It drips.  It stomps all over the place and not only can you not run away fast enough (I keep picturing Indie and the giant rolling boulder), but you then have to clean up the mucous left in its wake.

If stress is a looming dripping monster, what then is the incessant banter of little people? I see it as teeny tiny horse-riding knights wielding sharp weapons.  There are gangs of them rampaging through my head.  They bombard normal thought and slice them in half.  These vicious loud banter knights hide in the pathway from my head to my fingers and jump out and pierce creativity before it has a chance to be born into the world.  

Then what is everyday routine?  In my mind, it's a narcoleptic sloth.  It's insane amounts of dragging and exhaustion.  Can one have insomnia AND be narcoleptic?  If so, then the everyday monotony is an insomniac narcoleptic sloth.  It's constantly exhausted, doesn't get very far because it keeps conking out, yet can't ever get enough sleep when necessary.

Maybe everyday routine is a vacuum; sucking away time, creativity, youth, gentleness, and the ability to create a list of words which accurately describe just WHAT it removes.

As if you haven't been able to guess, the malaise has set in.  Let me say, I've actually been in remarkably good spirits lately.  Sure, there are small things I wish were different, but I'm very happy with my life.  I find myself having a number of, "This is awesome," moments lately.  Yet, the daily routine leaves little to no time for creativity.  You can't sit down and read or write (for your own enjoyment, not the kids') when you have two or three meetings scheduled with the real estate agent this week or when there are crepes to be cooked (or at least supervised--and eaten, of course) with the kids for a homeschool event, or a toddler to catch as she tries to perfect her dives off the top bunk.

When I do try to channel my creativity, little people constantly pop in and talk at me or they fight with each other or someone stomps off in someone else's giraffe rain boots and screaming ensues.  It is not physically possible to create when there is screaming over giraffe boots.

Do you have any idea how many times I have started and stopped this blog entry?  Do you have any idea how many times I've caught little people reading over my shoulder?  These kids are destroying my ever loving mind  patience.

And right on freaking cue: 
Pardon me for just one moment.  We will return to your regularly scheduled blog post when my son stops telling (complete with wild hand gestures and sound effects) about the video game he will create when he's older and owns his own flying car company and...(sorry my brain is overloaded.  I have abso-freaking-lutely no idea what else he said, only that it was very very loud and insistent). 


Wait, wait, wait, can't get back to the blog entry just yet.  Oldest asked me what to do with something with which she already knew exactly what to do.  


Pardon me one more moment.  Must remove head from desk (and insert plugs in ears).  

Oh hell!  Just freaking forget it.  THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT I'M COMPLAINING ABOUT.  I had a thought.  I started this (12 freaking hours ago) with a point, but all the mundane everyday crap ran that thought and inspiration off.

There was more I wanted to write, but I'll be damned if I can remember it now.  

Why my shower looks like a murder scene and why I'm not happy (even if I do have cute hair).

I was awake at ungdly hours  fortunate enough to get my hands on one of Clairol's coupons for a free trial of their new Nice 'n Easy Color Blend Foam.  The coupon came in the mail last week, so I headed to the store to pick it up.  It was tricky to find, but I eventually found it on the end cap, near the dyes, but not with them.  I opted for a darker brown with red highlights (I'm usually a lighter red).

A few days ago, I tried it out and was not at all pleased.  I can't find any real benefit to this concept.  It smelled and was difficult to use.

The mixture smelled far worse than any of the major brands I've used.  It was horrible and made my eyes tear.

The top appeared to be a pump top and it took me a few moments to realize it wasn't at all.  You put the top on and then you need to squeeze the bottle to get the foam.  Personally, I prefer a standard applicator bottle where I could put the color directly on my hair when necessary.  When I tried to do that with the foam bottle, it was very difficult to direct the foam in the correct place and it made a mess.  Plus the bottle is a bit cumbersome to hold that way and squeeze.

This was by far messier than any of the other standard boxed hair dyes I've used.  The foam had a bit of a mind of its own and splattered quite a bit.  My bathroom looked like a crime scene with all the red splatter.  

Maybe it was just because I've never used foam hair dye before, but I found it far more difficult than the standard thick liquid mix.  I found it difficult to tell when the hair was saturated.  The foam isn't very thick, so I redid the same spots quite a bit because I just couldn't tell if they had enough product.

On the plus side:  I love the color.  It's even and is true to the box.  My hair isn't dry or brittle at all.  The included conditioner works well and, unlike other brands, Clairol's foam includes two packets of conditioner with the instructions to use one a week after dying.  I like that a lot.  The package also came with gloves that were more form-fitting and comfortable than those that you have to peel off the instructions which are pretty standard in most boxed dyes.

That being said, I just don't think it's worth it.  The retail price is a bit higher than some dyes and considerably higher than others.  I think some of the kinks could be worked out with repeated use, but I don't think I could stand the smell and the cost to the point where I could try it again.

I love the color, but was very annoyed with the process.

Am I Suffering From Insomnia Or Just A Lack Of A Sound-proof Padded Room?

I have insomnia.  I've had it for over 20 years.  For me, that means it takes me a while to fall asleep and I wake frequently in the night.

The past few nights have been HORRIBLE.  I'm getting hardly any sleep.

This weekend, though, I came to a realization.  I'm so freaking exhausted that my insomnia isn't even the problem.  It might take me a while to fall asleep, but, once down, I would stay that way if not for EVERYONE ELSE IN THIS FREAKING HOUSE.

The other day, my big girls spent the night at a friend's, so I crashed early with the two youngest.  You might think, "Oh, early to bed and only 1/2 the kids in the house, that's a recipe for a great night's sleep."  You, however, would be so very very wrong.  

Here's how my night went:

• 7:30 pm: Start to doze off while reading to the kids.
• 8 pm: Kids in bed
• 8:01-8:30 pm: Do all the end of the night hustle and bustle (put up the dog, lock the doors, etc.).
• 8:35-9:45: Toss and turn and not fall asleep even though I was falling asleep on the couch just an hour before.
• 9:50: Fall asleep.
• 11:  Wake up for no known reason.
• 11:20 (or so)  Fall back to sleep.
• 12: Baby's awake and screaming.  Go get her.
• 12:45 Put baby back to bed.
• 1:30 Finally fall back to sleep.
• 3 am: Cat pounds at the door to get out.
• 3:00-3:02 Try to see through the dark if it's a smart cat who can actually get the door open or the stupid cat who will just pound on it for an hour without ever getting out.  Determine it's the smart cat and wait for her to work her magic.
LOLCAT BREAK:



Yeah, it was EXACTLY like that.

• 3:03: Cat gets out.  Get up and close the bedroom door after her.
• 3:10: Start to drift off to sleep when stupid cat then decides she wants out too.  After she bangs on the door, get up and let her out.  Leave door open.
• 3:15 Smart cat returns and loudly opens the bedroom closet.
• 3:16 Yell at the cat and put a box in front of the closet door.
• 3:17 Cat then scratches loudly at box.
• 3:18 Throw a sock at cat.
• 3:18.32: Cat loudly jumps on box and attacks.
• 3:19: Curse at cat while putting shoes on top of the box to hold it closed.
• 3:20-3:30: Cat tries to knock shoes off box making insane amounts of noise.
• 3:31: Toss cat in hallway and close door.
• 3:40 (just as drifting off to sleep) dumb cat returns and wants in.  She is, not, however smart enough to actually GET IN, so she scratches at the closed door.
• 3:41: Let the damn cat in.
• 4:02 am (just as drifting off to sleep yet again), baby wakes up.
• 4:03-4:04: Hope baby will go back to sleep, until you hear her yell, "Potty!  Potty!"
• 4:05-4:10:  Take baby to the bathroom, throw together another diaper and put her pajamas back on.
• 4:11:  Pray baby goes back to sleep easily.
• 4:12:  Decide there's no G-d
• 4:13-4:50:  Bring the baby to your bed and nurse her.
• 4:51:  Baby is up for the day and you don't have any big kids to help with her.
•  5am-11pm:  Be a general bitch out of sheer exhaustion

Yes, that is EXACTLY how my night went.  I thought to myself, "My insomnia isn't my problem.  The kids and cats are my problem.  I don't need Ambien.  I need a sound-proof padded room."

If It Looks Like A Horse, Walks Like A Horse and Sounds Like A Horse, It's Probably Not A Zebra

A very dear and wise friend gave me the above advice (the zebra bit, not the blunt card) when I was still in training for some health care work I did. The gist of it is to always look for the simplest explanation first because there's a good chance that really was the answer. We saw a variety of problems including some pretty severe and complicated ones, but we needed to remember that those were rare.  For the vast majority of people we worked with, the solutions were simple and basic. We needed to be aware that the troubling situations existed and required extra care, but we also needed to remember that most people would not have those complex difficulties.  If it seems simple, it probably is.  Treat it as such without jumping to uncalled for conclusions.

I was reminded of that advice this week.

Why would a 5-year-old child cut his things with scissors?

Some suggestions included that he was one step away from self mutilation, that he was very angry and unable to express it, he was deeply troubled, he was feeling abandoned and (as would obviously be the case with any of these) that he needed professional help.


However, all of those suggestions were way off base.  The child's true motivation is actually a horse, not a zebra.

Here's a simple little story to explain.

This is the comforter that S. slit.

Here is the bed all cozy and warm covered by the comforter that S. slit.

Here is the window alongside the bed all cozy and warm covered by the comforter that S. slit.

There hang the curtains in the window alongside the bed all cozy and warm covered by the comforter that S. slit.

Here is a curtain rod threaded through HOLES THE BOY'S MOTHER CUT to hang the curtains in the window alongside the bed all cozy and warm covered by the comforter that S. slit.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, when I sat my son down to have a heart-to-heart talk as to what his possible motivations could be, the conversation went very much like this:

Me:  What were you feeling when you cut your comforter?

Him:  I wasn't feeling anything.

Me:  What were you thinking when you did it?

Him:  I wasn't thinking anything.

Me:  Were you angry or frustrated when you cut it?

Him:  No.

Me:  Were you feeling sad?

Him:  No. (pause) Well, I guess a little sad.

Me:  What made you sad?

Him:  Because it looked bad and it wouldn't even hang up.

At this point, I was completely and utterly baffled.

Him: (pointing to his curtains)  You cut holes in those and got them to hang up, but it didn't work for me.

(pause here for mom's "Eureka" moment)

Me: So why did you hide it from me?

Him:  I didn't hide it from YOU.  I hid it from ME because it doesn't look cool.  It just looks broken.  I don't wanna see that.

One Of Those Nights

It's one of those nights.  I hate these nights.  I miss my husband.

We've done this distance thing before.  We're used to it.  Honestly, now that the kids are older, it's not that bad anymore.  We have our routines.  I have help from the bigger kids.  I have fantastic friends who help out when they can.  I can handle this stuff on my own.

I don't need my husband to function.  I can handle the day-to-day stuff by myself without him around. The fact is, I LIKE my husband.  I actually want him around.  I know this, combined with the fact that he's not an asshat is a shock to many folks.  It seems to be the standard belief (and often practice) that husbands must be awful and wives should want to spend as little time as possible with them.

When he returned from his last deployment, he had a month off--a whole glorious month home with us.  We loved every minute.  A friend of mine, though, countered with, "You only feel that way because he just came home.  By the end of the month, you'll be dying to ship him back."

Um...no.  By the end of the month, we were sorry to see him go back to work.

I've known people who anxiously count down the days until a snippy spouse gets a vacation only to then immediately start counting down the days until their over-bearing spouse goes back to work.  We've never been one of those couples.

I like having my husband around.  He's smart.  He's funny.  He's hot as hell. He has good taste in movies.  He's a genuinely nice human being.  He's a great father.  He really is a partner--we're in this together.  We really do work together in most things (okay, so I wind up as the only one who cleans the bath tub 97.5% of the time no matter how many times I ask him to do it).

Yeah, obviously I love the guy.  We've been together 14 years (OMG.  I just realized that this year marks 14 years.  Yeah, I gasped at that realization) and this year will mark our 12th wedding anniversary (Why yes, that was another gasp you just heard escape from my mouth.  I knew last year marked 11 years so I have no clue how 12 managed to surprise me, but it did).  But the simple fact is, I like him.  After all these years, I still like him--really truly like him.

I don't know why tonight turned into one of "Those" nights.  I'm not even sure how it did.  I just know I suddenly and achingly miss my husband.

I'm trying not to let myself get too down.  "Always look on the bright side of life," and all that jazz (and yes, if you heard the Monty Python version, you're doing it right).  I really do know how lucky I am to be married to someone I still respect, still love and still like.  Still, when I remember how fantastic he is, I get a wee bit frantic and I get the urge to yell at the sky, "Then why the hell can't I be with him?"

*sigh*


This house will sell.  This house will sell.  This house will sell quickly so that we can move and our family will be together again.  


Could we just have that happen sooner rather than later, though...please. 

Today is February 1st. 5 months apart

"Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling into at night. I miss you like hell." Edna St. Vincent Millay

My son is currently screaming and crying in his bedroom.  Why?  On the surface, it's because his flashlight doesn't work.  What it's really about, though, is that daddy is gone again.

This past weekend, when the husband was here, the kids had a great time and instantly bonded with him again.  I turned to him at one point and said, "This is going to be awful when you leave."

Sure enough, Monday night, I wound up with the two weest of our wee ones screaming in my lap and the bigger pair doing their best emo teen impressions.

I've done this oh so many times.  I know how this works.  I know my kids and I know it's going to suck.

At one point this weekend, I turned to my husband and asked, "When do I get to go away so you can see what this is like?"

I don't actually want to be away from the kids (although a night out would be heavenly).  I know that's awful.  My husband left Active Duty because changes in his career field meant he would be away from the family far too much.  I just want some equality in this parenting situation.

When we speak on the phone, I'll relay something the kids have done (because they miss daddy) and my husband will ask, "Why the hell did he/she do that?"  Sometimes he'll tell me, "But that doesn't make any sense."  It, however, makes perfect sense when you're a kid and you miss your daddy.  It also makes sense to a parent who has been through this so very many times.

I am not at all surprised by the fact that I needed to take a break from writing this post to hold a little boy as he cried.  I was heartbroken, but not surprised when the youngest headed to my bedroom yesterday morning and declared, "I go get daddy."  As we left the airport in the dark early Monday morning, I had to listen closely to hear the oldest sniffling in the back seat, but I heard it.

I don't want my kids to ache for a parent they love who can't be here.  I don't want to be away from them myself.  I just wish the husband could understand.  I wish he would know what this was like (for me and the kids).  I wish that I didn't have to be the only one rocking screaming children and wiping away tears.

"I need you. I don't know why, but every now and then in my life, for no reason at all, I need you."-Sarah "Labyrinth"

Yesterday was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.  The husband's brief visit ended (his visit explains why I vanished from the Blogosphere last week).  We had to drop him off at the airport at O'Dark Thirty in the morning.

The day was then just one miserable experience after another.

Among those miserable experiences was the vehicle deciding that running was optional and it wasn't an option the van actually wanted.  Of course, the kids had Hebrew school which is nowhere near our house and therefore requires a working vehicle.

Luckily, a friend lives in my area AND is a Hebrew school teacher.  So she (G-d bless her) was able to bring the kids there and back (this bears repeating, caps, & excessive punctuation G-D BLESS HER!!!).

Later, that same friend complained that her day wasn't productive.  This was a shock to me because she really saved us.  Plus, in my awful day, she was the one bright spot.  I think contributing to the education of the children (by actually getting my kids' butts there and teaching other people's kids) AND restoring faith in humanity are both very productive.

With the husband still out of state and the vehicle still refusing to work, I thought today would be another miserable day like yesterday.   Then, I got a last minute call to babysit.  There was a death and a funeral and a 2-year-old whose mother needed to attend to the first two.  The death and funeral are beyond me, but the two-year-old needing watching, that one I've got covered.

So she came over and joined the goat rodeo for the day.  Everyone had a blast.  We built with blocks.  We read books.  We played dress up (at one point, I was wearing an Xmas tree skirt as a shawl,  a shower cap and sunglasses shaped like a bat), we read more books, we had snacks.  Her mom was very thankful.  It really wasn't a big deal for me, but it helped her out quite a bit.

Amazingly, I found all this left me with no time to wallow in another terrible day.  Being needed, being able to help and knowing that our help was very much appreciated helped completely turn my mood around.

"I live in a crazy time."--Anne Frank

Right now, I'm disheartened and I'm horrified.

There is a blatant act of anti-Semitism where Jews are portrayed as vicious blood-thirsty monsters.   Some people I support are promoting it.  When I read it, I was very disturbed.  I pointed out to the group that it was blatant anti-Semitism and I have come to find that the majority of (vocal) people in that group not only don't see it as such, but are arguing with me over the fact.

One such person has made it very obvious that he actually believes the lies in this anti-Jewish propaganda.  He believes certain Jews are monsters.  He came right out and used that exact word repeatedly.

Another person suggested that Jewish tradition is responsible for anti-Semitism.  She claims to have heard Neo nazis discuss those weird Jews, so obviously we did this to ourselves.  She saw no problem in that theory.

These people have made the "I'm sorry you're offended, but it's not anti-Semitic" argument.  One person suggested I was "Anti-semitic sensitive."  I'm not.  I am not one to jump on the "That's anti-Semitic" bandwagon over every little thing.  This, however, is not a little thing.  This is actually a group that I've defended from others who accused them of being anti-Semites.  I argued that, no, that's not what they're about.  But now I see, that for some, it actually is.  This horrifies me.

To a certain degree, I think non-Jews might think we're over-sensitive to anti-Semitism in certain respects just because they don't have the same life experience.  We have different understandings, difference experiences and different world views.  Yes, there are some of my fellow Yids who could be classified as "The boy who cried anti-Semitism," but that's not most Jews.

Luckily, all the non-Jews with whom I shared the anti-Semitic information and who have replied agreed that it was, in fact, anti-Semitic and horrifying.  My fellow Yids who saw it have all been very upset.  I was relieved to hear the non-Jews agreed because I'm really doubting humanity right now.

I'm at a loss.  I'm disheartened.  I'm horrified.  How can people be so hateful as to do this?  How can people be so daft or uncaring as to not see blatant anti-Semitism.  I find it chilling that so many people not only didn't see it, but then argued with me about it.

I'm so thrilled that I have friends who recognize cruelty and hatred.  It really did make me feel better to know that there are people out there who recognize this hatred and are horrified by it too.  At the same time, I'm saddened that it exists.

I was just talking with E today about how, in Germany, her great grandmother's rabbi built a sukkah in his apartment.  When I first heard that story and pointed out that building one indoors didn't fullfill the mitzvah (it needs to be outdoors among other things), Bubbe told me, "It was Germany.  We were Jews.  You just didn't do that there then."

In this day and age, my children's only experience with such hatred should be through stories--old stories of days long ago.  These should be old stories from which we all have learned and moved on to compassion and understanding.

And yet, here, in America, to a frightening number of people, we are still monsters and still portrayed as such.  Even more chilling is that when we are portrayed as such, there are those who argue that it is NOT anti-Semitic.

Eat me. Drink me. BUY ME!

We had another house showing today.  I'm getting so annoyed with busting our butts to get the house ready only to have everyone pass.  This is a great house.  It's bigger than most others on the market.  It's bigger than any other one in this price range.  Most of the house has new hardwood floors.  We have a great sized yard.

I don't understand why it's not selling.  It's so freaking frustrating.  I just want to sell this place and move already.  I want my family to be back together.  I'm ready to move on (literally and figuratively).  Apparently, no one else is ready to move IN, though.

And yeah, yeah, yeah, "It only takes one person," people tell me in an attempt to give me some comfort.  It doesn't work, though.  It just frustrates me.  Sure, it only takes one right person to decide this is the house for them.  In the mean time, we have to bust our butts to clean for tours for all the WRONG people.  The only thing worse than that is not having anyone come for a tour.  You can't possibly find the one right person if no one is coming to see it.

Pardon me while I go pout in the corner--the corner of this lovely house that could be all yours if you get your butt here now and give us an offer.  Please, pretty pretty please?

Dork or Awesome? You Decide.

I can't decide if this makes me a dork or if it makes me awesome.

I was in a car accident earlier this week (that is not the dork/awesome part).  No one was hurt, but the vehicle wasn't safe for transporting the goat rodeo.  I hopped on the see-saw that is the party at fault's insurance.  Well, I was on the see-saw.  They were hiding behind the school building refusing to even come out and play.  They promised to get the ball rolling.  Then they didn't, but promised the next morning.  Then didn't.  So I turned it over to my insurance.

All this left me without a working vehicle all week.  Today, we got wheels.  Where was the first place we took these wheels?  We went to the library.

That, right there, is the part that leaves me uncertain.

I don't really care.  If it crowns me as the queen of the dorks, I'll proudly wear that crown.  The library rocks and I'm not ashamed to admit it.

Down with the sickness

Well, I'm down for the count.  The sickness fairy has visited me.  Hell, the sickness fairy beat me senseless.

I only got 3 hours of sleep last night.  I thought it was odd when I woke up sweating, but didn't even consider the fact that I might have finally gotten the fever that everyone else has been through.  It wasn't until the sinuses started throbbing and the head started aching that I realized it was my turn.

Luckily, a mix of the netipot, sudafed (the original meth-making stuff that's behind the counter now, not the crappy useless version that's available on the shelves), homeopathic remedies and rest has helped quite a bit.  I'm not in pain anymore, but I'm absolutely exhausted.

Here's hoping I can get to bed sooner rather than later and that this passes quickly.  If the kids are any indication, though, these germs are in it for the long haul.  Ugh!

Knock Knock. Who's there? Reality

Courtesy of Awkward Family Photos

Reality is tap dancing on my doorstep and it's not pretty.

The husband leaves in four days.  :-o

We've known this was coming, but as the date gets closer, it's just starting to hit me.

On top of him moving before us, is the insane bill he's going to accrue for the hotel where he'll be staying.  Even though he researched and found the cheapest option, it will still cost nearly twice our mortgage.  That terrifies me.

Now I really hope we sell this place quickly.  At the same time, I'd like to spend some more time here with my friends before we go.  The kids have a good friend's Halloween birthday party they're dying to attend.  During Break the Fast, they rambled on and on about what they're going to do at that party and who will be here.  The husband tried to remind them that we might not be here at the end of next month.  I reminded him, that based on average time on the market in our area, we have months ahead of us.  That thought seems overwhelming and helpless.

During Yom Kippur services, I realized that was his last Shabbat here.  Going into the high holidays, I knew they would be our last here, but the fact that it would be his last Shabbat snuck up on me.  I was near tears at one point, just looking around the sanctuary.  I want to memorize every last bit of it.  That, however, is another post for another day.

Until then, we'll continue working on the house, trying to shove in as many appointments as possible before he leaves and fighting back reality and its horrible tap routine as it shuffle ball changes right smack into the middle of our lives.  There WILL be jazz hands.  You can bet there will be jazz hands and they won't be pretty.