From total darkness to an incredible lightness of being.

Once upon a time, I existed in a dark, dark room. The windows had been blacked out, and monsters lurked everywhere, not just under the bed. I forgot that feeling was anything more than emotional pain, so I needed to cause myself physical pain, just so I could remember a different sensation.

My left arm. That has been a constant, ugly reminder of that dark room, of those dark times. Those scars stood out, a staunch reminder that once upon a time, I was Not Okay.

I've woken up recently. I realized that I transitioned from that dark room to a room where there was light, but still a film over the windows. I was seeing, but not clearly. When I had that realization, when I let myself feel completely again, I decided never again would I let that film cloud the way. No matter what hurt it brought, it's worth it. And in these few short weeks since that's happened, I've felt more emotions -- good and bad -- than I have in years. It's incredible. I decided a I needed a visual reminder, something that speaks to me, that has always spoken to me, to make me recall how much life sucked before the film was lifted from the glass.

I had started to transform my left arm from a thing of darkness to a thing of light, but it stalled. Just an outline, something that had been done erroneously, something that I was unhappy with. I decided to take charge again, to draw that reminder out and down, and my forearm piece was born.

After that, I took a deep breath, and decided to turn my upper arm into a thing of beauty, even if it wasn't what I originally envisioned. I wanted...no, needed...to own it. I needed to make it something that reflected the incredible lightness that had become being me these days. Behold. The focal point is no longer my scars. It is hours of loving work, sisterly inspiration, backing from friends, and a lot of encouragement from many places. It isn't what I originally wanted, but it IS something I love, and it does reflect the beauty that my life has become.

A song bird in flight, and a freshly opened flower for every day. Welcome to my new bright room, y'all.

Boston

I started out this blog post saying I had no words. And then I realized I do.

I have words for the assholes like Alex Jones:

(Thanks Wonkette for the tweets.)

Those words include "You're a prick" and "You have lost the point completely" and "How dare you?"

There are no "buts" in this scenario. There is only "our hearts go out to."

This is a tragedy that did not just affect Boston, MA. This is a human tragedy. This is Columbine, this is 9/11, this is Newtown, this is all of us. This is our friends and our family. This is our neighbors, this is you and me.

Don't argue with me that there were "only" two dead, and there were "only" ~100 injuries (that are currently reported, anyway.) This was done with extreme malice and vitriole, this was done with hatred and evil, as were all the events I listed above, and then some.

I think the venerable George Takei put it best when he said "When tragedies strike, heroes rise to meet the challenge: the first responders seen sprinting toward the blast site, the runners who changed course to run to local hospitals to donate blood, and the fine citizens of Boston who at once opened their homes to marathoners in need of a place to stay. When we come together, we cannot be brought down."

So FUCK YOU, Alex Jones, and those who are on your heels with similar sentiments. You may stand apart, but the rest of us will stand together, and together we'll heal from this.

As the new year comes to fruition...

I bid 2012 a joyous adieu. 2012 saw a lot of things... the end to a toxic, dangerous relationship; new health issues with the kids; heartbreak and loss.

There were good moments to be sure, but the majority of the year was spent in unhappiness.

So, it is with a glass-half-full attitude that I sit with Kinder Major and await 2013.

I don't have gargantuan hopes for 2013, just the small dream that it will bring happiness and peace.

Blessings to you, readers, and Happy New Year!

Pneumonia in mom and the special needs child.

Pneumonia is not an easy ailment to deal with.  It leaves you breathless, exhausted, with your head swimming from a lack of oxygen.  You wheeze like an old ford truck on a frosty morning, and you bark like a seal when you cough.  Every muscle hurts from the coughing.

So what the hell do you do when you're coping with this little slice of medical hell and you have a special needs child who demands alllll of your attention allllll of the time?

Number one: Take your damn antibiotics.  Put it on the same timer that your birth control pill is on, take it when you make breakfast, but make sure you take it.

Number two: Pre-made foods are not the devil.  Frozen french toast, bagel bites, and canned ravioli are all acceptable food mediums with which your little darling can paint the room.

Number three: Dora.  Jake and the Neverland Pirates.  The Cat in the Hat knows a lot about that.  These will be your friend whilst you convalesce on the couch, still wheezing like that old ford.

What to do when your little darling demands to be on top of you, because you're an attachment parent and have worn said little darling since day one, and it's now year three and he thinks he still has to be touching you or on you at all times?  You begin the weaning and self-soothing process.

Fair warning, this may involve lollypops as rewards.

The long and the short of it? Take care of yourself.  Your kiddo, while being special needs, IS CAPABLE of playing on their own, soothing on their own, eating on their own, and pottying on their own, when you need them to be.  The NF1 makes Bug a very dependent child in many ways, but these coping mechanisms, while not necessarily the ideal activities for every day, will make it possible for you to take care of yourself while still providing the basic necessities for your child.

Oh, and one more thing - going over all the therapy techniques that are required by the therapists that you see three times or more a week?  Those can slide a little too.

Liebster Award!

I was just awarded the Liebster Award by none other than the fabulous Dar from Tales of an Unlikely Mother, which originated over at the lovely (and fun) Life in Pint-Sized Form.

The rules are that I tell you all 11 things about me, and deem someone worthy to have the award passed to.

1. I'm finally coming into myself as an adult.  I no longer feel like I'm a teenager playing grownup; rather, I feel like a grown up who occasionally wishes I could go back to being a teen.
2. My children are raised in a village.  We home share with my parents, my two siblings, a non-blood roommate, and my niece part-time.  My house is never quiet, and I don't know what I'll do when the day comes that I finally buy my own place.  I'll miss the noise.
3. I loathe doing dishes.  Doing dishes and floors.  I'll scrub the nastiest toilet, but please, don't make me mop or do dishes.
4. I've been known to not only talk in my sleep, but sing as well.
5.  My number of close friends can be counted on one hand.
6. At least one of those fingers is someone I've never met "in real life."
7. I have always been a computer geek. From bulletin boards to IRC back in the day, with dialup and the local freenet, to my current cable connection and blogger.  I don't think I could live without my computer.
8. I have never shoplifted anything.  Not even gum or candy as a kid.
9. No matter how bad the crisis, how devastating the loss, you put me with a horse and I'll be able to breathe.
10. My children literally saved my life.  I used to say I refused to live to see 30.  I'll be there in a few short months and plan to keep on kicking.
11. I don't like wearing a bra.

I'm choosing to pass this award over to KB at Wanderlust. Her life is tumultuous and would break a lesser being, but she manages to bend without snapping, and still find the beauty.  Why don't you go give her a read?

Laptop repair!

Check out Go Green Computing, LLC in Gainesville, FL.  They don't just do repair, they do procurement as well.  Right now they're running a $10 off special!  Tell them Jackie sent you, or that you saw their ad on Accidentally Mommy!

On babies (and mamas) who others think shouldn't be.

We all know I was an accidental mommy. My pregnancy with Kinder Major was flawless, and even enjoyable.  It could be argued, though, that I wasn't meant to be.  Moments after delivering a beautiful, angry red-haired little girl, I began to bleed uncontrollably.  I was so tired.  All I wanted to do was sleep off the pain I was in as I bled and bled.

But they fought me, and my mother fought me, and I stayed awake.  I stayed here for my baby.  I stayed here because I wanted to be, whether the universe wanted it or not.

Things with Bug were not so peaceful.  A sub-chorionic hemorrhage during my first trimester. Hit by a car second trimester.  Third trimester, pre-eclampsia, fetal distress, premature birth by induction.

I call him the little engine that could.  In spite of all of those things, he persevered.  He was the little fetus that could.

I hemorrhaged again after his birth, and again I wanted to just sleep.  This time I sent my mother away, instructing her to never leave the side of my baby, my little boy blue, not breathing, not stirring.

We danced with fate, the three of us.  Plenty of people who have heard our stories comment on how we, in one form or another, shouldn't be.

I believe they're wrong, though.  Our existence, and the way we fought to be a family, us three, makes life all the sweeter.  It makes it worthwhile to be.

Funk-be-gone!

So.  It's well past time for me to pull myself up by my bra straps and get out of this funk.

Mind, it's not really a funk about him, though he plays a part in it.  It's more a culmination of being in limbo again as far as where my life is going and what I'm going to be when I grow up, the children and their health and well being, and dissatisfaction with my personal life.

Right now I have an awesome job.  It's nothing fancy, it's sure as hell not glamorous, but it's something I can do and do well, to the point of going home *happy* knowing that I've completed my tasks to the best of my ability, and I truly did an excellent job.  However... there's always a however, it's not something I can or will do for the rest of my life.  I want more.  I want to know that I'm not just doing my job, I'm helping out in the world.  This job could lead to that job.  More limbo, though, as it'll take me quite a bit of time to get there.  I want it, though.  Good god, readers... I want it so much it hurts.  I just don't quite know how to go about finally getting it.

The children are well overall.  Kinder Major has been diagnosed as epileptic, for official and all.  We're on the medication rollercoaster now, and it's wearing me out.  Kinder Major doesn't particularly like the ride, nor does she like the fact that I now watch her like a hawk for signs of seizures.  Helmets are more strictly enforced, and there are days when I'm hesitant to even brush her hair.  She's missed a fair bit of school over this, as well.  I'm keenly aware that it could be worse, though, so I'm thankful daily that it's not.

Bug is doing alright.  Health wise he's perfect, it's his development that I worry for.  I cannot count the number of times I've been asked if he is autistic.  He's not.  He communicates, but doesn't talk, per se.  He has words, but they're still not crystal clear, and most people cannot decipher them, and mistake his speaking for babble.  He also signs to us, and does a good job at it.  He understands EVERYTHING, and is the most social, happy little man.  That doesn't keep me from worrying that he's developed a fibroid in the communication center of the brain, though.  I haven't brought it up to neuro yet - I've been sitting on it, trying to decide if I'm just being a worry wart or if there may be something to the idea.  I'm still unsure.  I wish I had some sort of magic 8-ball for him.

My personal life. Ooooh my personal life.  As you know, Pater Pueri and I have split.  That has left me sad, but I refuse to pine over him, and I'm pretty well moved on.  What makes me sad is that we had this life planned out, we told Kinder Major all about our plans, and now it's been snatched out from under her.  She's left angsty, and I'm left seething over her unhappiness.

As far as what I'm doing now that I'm a free agent... well, I'm looking but not looking hard.  I'm leaving myself open to the universe and whomever may come along. It's interesting to allow myself to openly admire and flirt with another person again, after so long of not being able to, or not wanting to.  It's kind of nice to think about making plans with someone just to get to know them.  While I'm enjoying things, I'm still somewhat intimidated.  I never dated well.  Just ask any of my high school flings.  I wasn't about the dating so much. =P

So that's our lives right now, world.  How are yours?

What to do?

My post on Thursday centered on coping with the reality that is the other half of a blended family moving further than the other side of town.  Compromise is KEY, I said.  Open mind is KEY, I said.

Today, dear readers, I am not taking the high road.  Chalk it up to the migraine, the cramps from Hell, or even just a pissy mood, but understand this: I'm about to bitch and complain.
 b
StepMC and I spoke a while back, when we learned first that StepMC was hauling across country.  I asked he+999-r if we could get the children together more often than just Pater Puerii's weekends, so that they could spend what time they had left together more often.  Her response... heh.  Hang on a moment, I need to mentally break a glass against a wall out of frustration.

Anyway, her response to me was non-committal.  However, in the next sentence, she stated "I'd like them to have as much time as possible but if she gets used to seeing [Blueberry Nights], it may be harder when we move."

Now, that sentence is one big oxymoron, is it not?

She has been utterly unable to accommodate even a single play date with the children, but she has been able to move heaven and earth to spend as much time as possible with a playmate visiting from Australia.

Hold please, taking another moment to close my eyes and imagine myself throwing another glass against a wall.

She and I loathe each other.  There is no secrecy to that.  But Jesus God, you'd think that she'd make more of an effort for her daughter's sake, wouldn't you?  Though, this isn't the first time her duplicity, lies, insanity and false promises have had a direct affect on my child.  I can't imagine the hell it is on Pater Pueri to know that the woman who stole years from his other daughter is once again depriving her and throwing her love in the trash.  Pater Pueri and I have no love lost on StepMC, since I have never liked her and he has never loved her.  She can't hurt us in that way.  Kinder Major, though, she hurts to the core.  Over and over.  I don't lie to my child when she asks why she doesn't get to see Blueberry Nights as much as she briefly did.  I have explained that there is a difference between the adults, and StepMC is quite busy and unable to balance things any better.  Even with that neutral explanation, though, Kinder Major comes to her own conclusions, and they're often correct.

I just lost my train of thought.  Probably for the best.  One can only bitch so much in one day, you know?

Tales to tell...

It's wordless Wednesday, but I have an announcement to preface my photo du jour.  I have a guest post up at Parentwin/Tales of an Unlikely Mother today!  I've never been a guest writer before, and I'm about peeing myself with pride.  Go check it out!

Birth thoughts.

I have not one but THREE dear friends due to give light to their children within the next two months.  It has made my ovaries twitch, and made me reflect on life.

A second panel for vWD was run on me recently, and it showed no abnormalities.  In discussing this with my internist, she told me that I likely have a very mild mutation, which explains my tendency to bruise when the wind blows, but also explains why it doesn't always quant out in an ELIZA.

As much as I loved my last OB, he did what the first one did.  He tractioned.  I watched the clock - he gave me 15 minutes, and that's when he tractioned and I stopped just bleeding and began to gush.

I have informed Pater Puerii that we will be accidentally on purpose birthing at home.  I will go to clinic, but I'll be damned if I let them almost kill me a third time.

In light of all of this, I send nothing but the most blessed thoughts toward my birthing friends.  Congratulations in advance - you will have brought forth a beautiful little person into the light.

Wordless Wednesday a bit late: Keeping the artist in me alive while coming up with a solution for a lack of present adornment.

Thoughtful Thursday: An open letter.

To whom it may concern:

I have to send you honest and heartfelt thanks.  Without your duplicity, your psychosis, your abuse, your greed, your jealously... essentially, without all of your best qualities, I would not be where I am today.

Where is that, you ask? I'm delighted to tell you that I'm in the best place anyone who wants a family can be.  I am in the arms of a man who truly fits the cliche "soul mate" bill. I have two beautiful children, one of which was his before he ever had one with you.  We are embarking on a journey together that can only end in good things.  We are no longer encumbered by your lies, or living in fear of retribution.  We sits together at the dinner table over food that we've prepared as a team, with the children helping.  We read to the children, and we send them off to sleep.  Then, at some point thereafter, we sleep soundly in each other's arms.

Don't think that you haven't hurt us; you have.  But by your fabrications, by the hurt you caused, you brought us together in the first place, when we had both long given up and written the other off as someone we were thankful to never know and wished we'd never met to begin with.  We were wrong, plain and simple!  We have laughed over and over that if we had been adult enough to try and continue our friendship when Kinder Major was conceived, that Blueberry Nights would be home with us, safe, no longer subject to your emotional and borderline physical abuse.  Then, the sobering reality not that she could have been, but that there's little extra we can do for her, silences us.  In our home, unlike in yours, there will be no delineation between half and whole.  There will be no step.  There is love, and only love.  She will come to us as though she'd never left, with a snack on the table and some fun surprise planned to celebrate her joyous homecoming.   Joyous.  That is absolutely what it is.  She is my soul mate's daughter, she is my daughter's sister.  She will always, in every way, be welcomed and loved.

I'm unexpectedly bringing this to a close.  I had a lot of other things I thought I wanted to say to you.  Things about your lies, things about the people you've hurt.  I changed my mind.  I said thank you for bringing Pater Puerii and I together, and I told you I will always love his daughter.  His daughter, his daughter, and his son.  Children of my heart.  With all of that said, with you knowing how appreciative I am for your deceit and your cruelty, I find myself done.

P.S. You should never have had the jaw surgery.  At least beforehand, we thought it was the jaw that made you so incredibly unattractive.  Now that it's been broken and moved forward?  Yeah.  You really are ugly, inside and out.

"This button.  Right here!"

 He's so damn smart.  By the end of the week, he was terrorizing Kinder Major and their cousin, monopolizing the mini John Deere for his own nefarious purposes.

That is where it gets some people.  He doesn't LOOK sick. Most days he isn't.  There are little things that stick out to anyone watching closely, though.  At just a few months shy of his second birthday, he weighs less than his sister did at ten months old.  He is just under the third percentile for height.  His head, however, is charting at a whopping 30%.  See? I told you he's smart.

The newest addition to our cast of misfit characters, we'll call him Pater Pueri, fiercely insists that there is nothing wrong with him, just like he fiercely insists that he is PP's own son, blood be damned.  I love him for many many reasons, but those two may have been what sealed the deal for me all that time ago.

He's not incorrect in that assertion; there is nothing wrong with our son.  Our son seems to be experiencing some... technical difficulties... if you will.

I posted a bit ago about the result of our visit with the genetics team, an appointment that was a year and two months in the making.  There were no definite answers.  That status... remains.  Frustratingly. 

Tonight is no different as frustration goes.  I'm up, feeling unwell myself, and to occupy myself away from my own gastric distress, I sit and play armchair diagnostician, constantly asking myself "Okay, if this is another dead end, where do we go next?  What do we try?  Who do we see?"

My little Bug.  He was conceived under less than stellar circumstances, and he hung with me through my body's silent but bloody coup d'etat, to be delivered unto me purple and surly-faced, leaving me utterly and endlessly smitten.  His young life has been eventful, and will continue to be.  My young life will grow gradually older, striving every minute to do for him what I simultaneously spend every minute doing for his sister: making sure that there is only the shadow of the universe's chaos that could sentence me to watching my little loves whisper away.

Nobody puts Baby in a corner (campsite!)

First time primitive camping with an 18 month old and a six year old.  Tips? Troubles?  Mama has done the alone-in-the-woods-with-a-mechanical-pencil-and-some-rubbing-alcohol type stuff, but I've never done it with the kids.  I find myself somewhat trepidatious, even though I have decent wilderness skills.  I've never had to use them with the kids, though, and well... Accidentally Mommy would prefer not to rock the boat and end up Accidentally Needing Them.

Please... discuss in comments!  I'm sure everyone has an anecdote if nothing else, of their own.  

Bug update

Today was the long awaited appointment with the genetics team.  We were referred there for suspicious hyperpigmentation concurrent with a neurological disorder called Neurofibromatosis type I.  (NF1 for short.)  Additionally, the possibility of one of the many mutations of Cystic Fibrosis has been on the table for a long time, now.

There are many things that were said during the appointment that I'm sure I'll miss in this note, but here goes.

In regards to the NF1, he has a big head and a small stature.  That, combined with the cafe au lait stains, the gross and fine motor delays, and the speech delay has led the team to conclude that he is definitely diagnosed, with a 75% surety. The blood test for the other 25% is $2k out of pocket.  We're going to take the 75%.  Now, what does this mean for him in the future?  No one knows.  He could develop nodules in his brain, on his spine, on his nerves, in his muscles, on his skin, or in his eyes.  By the same token, he could never exhibit another new symptom.  He may not speak, he may.  He may fall into the autistic spectrum, he may not.  There's a lot of may/may not's with this one.  He goes for a recheck in a year, unless new developments arise.

That out of the way, there is definite concern for his slight stature.  Height and weight fall just under the third percentile for him.  With all of the GI issues and his continued failure to thrive, having the sequencing done for Cystic Fibrosis was a definite.

In regards to just his slight stature, there may have been some malabsorption and malnutrition during the puking/diarrhea times.  In addition to the may/may not's above, his grown may/may not have been stunted, and may/may not even out later.

Overwhelmed? Yes.  But that is where we are.  Love you all, xoxo

The one where she talks of everything, and nothing at all.

Empty promises to return to the blogging front lines have begun to gather dust.

Have you ever been so far into the middle of the storm that you begin to wonder if you've lost your footing, perhaps stumbled into some alternate reality?

I'm there.  I've been there for a while now.  While the landscape is vaguely familiar, I have yet to acquaint myself with it.  It's populated by the people who have always occupied the cast list in my life; to the positive of that, some have been unwittingly blessed, and saved from being typecast as villains, instead taking on the roles of sound reason and closest to heart.  Of them I which I could talk more, but unfortunately there are plot devices still at large that could easily ruin the ending.

The children.  My beautiful Kinder Major and Bug. Snow white, and her excitement to see me when she comes in the door.  Blueberry Night, a character in a new role, so... lost.  The children are also left to the devices of the writers.  They are the ultimate balm for my troubled heart, but the source of the trouble is the trials they're forced to endure.

I know, I know... you're reading this and thinking "Jesus god, could she lay the rhetoric on any thicker?  Mayhap we could call Tammy Fay on over to give her a few tips on the womanly art of slathering."

I won't lie - I'm feeling a little 'mo.  I can't talk about the most important developments in my life right now, because they're intrinsically linked to the most devastating ones.  While not as "bad" as the hardships that friends and family are enduring, they have a profound effect on four small, beautiful souls.  I'm helpless, and stuck in a stalemate with the universe.  Were I in my ancestral home, you'd find me leaving fry bread and beer at the closest rock cairn.  However, I doubt that the Tuatha De have deigned to follow my family this far and this long.   No, if there is cosmic mischief about, it's coming from far newer tricksters.

There I go again, with the rhetoric.

Tonight, this morning, right this second with my fingers on the keyboard, my stomach is churning, my head is pounding, my teeth are aching, and my eyes are burning.  When I tried to sleep, I found myself doing so in tiny snippets that left me more tired than I was when I started out.

In t-5:00 hours, I take Bug to see the pediatric geneticist.  At 19 months, he is 21 lbs and 29".  It was a fight to get him where he is - olive oil in everything savory, coconut oil in everything sweet.  Balancing out proteins and fats to protect his kidneys and gallbladder.  Strictly monitoring the ingredients of everything that goes into his mouth, cutting out all dairy in any incarnation.  Powdered prescription formula derived from amino acids, re-constituted with vanilla rice milk to mask the taste.

He has only just begun walking in the past two weeks, and his verbal accomplishments are definitely behind the standard milestones.

Frightening possibilities have been thrown down on the table.  Possibilities that, should they become realities, will leave me wondering when I will have to bury my son, or possibly worse, how often I will have to sit with him in hospital as he receives painful treatments to create some semblance of a normal existence.

I sit here, typing this while I watch him sleep in his pack and play, with tears running down my cheeks whenever I think too hard about the implications of the fact that we've made it to this clinic to begin with.

As a woman, not a mother, not a fiance, not a step mother to Blueberry Nights, I've doubted my faith.

When Bug was conceived, I was unsure.  His pregnancy was fraught with difficulties, from a placental abruption in the first trimester he never should have lived through, to his rocky induction at 36w5d.  When his other biological contributor showed his dangerous and sadistic true self, I was angry.  I hated myself and I hated Bug for existing.  I hated him because he was a very prominent reminder of the danger I placed Kinder Major in, of my poor ability to judge one's character.  I hated him, because there I was again - single, alone, with no one that wanted any of us.

It's a hard thing, to go through a pregnancy, an entire pregnancy, with the only touch you receive being your OB exams and the occasional hug from family.  To be isolated, and watch the world and friends and family go by, chattering excitedly about what coloring the baby will favor, mama or papa, to watch partners look at their wives and fall in love all over again.  To know that there is no one who feels that way.

No one.

It creates bitterness.  It creates hatred.  It creates a miserable existence.

But in the end, I did love him.  I loved him the instant they placed him on my chest, smelling of the intoxicating scent that is new birth.  He looked into my eyes in that moment, as I rubbed him to stimulate him, doing his APGARS in my head and realizing he was failing them miserably.  In that moment, I knew that he was just as stubborn as me, and that I had misjudged him.

So now, here I sit, trembling at the prospect of walking in there alone, without the man who loves us retroactively, who refuses to acknowledge that he is not Bug's daddy.  He is off working for the security of our future.  He loves us.  It's odd to see it typed out that way.  He loves all of us.  Kinder Major, Blueberry Nights, and Bug, as well as me.  We love him back, fiercely, naturally.  Us as a family is remarkably organic in our mismatched minor dysfunction.  He is my best friend and my, dare I be so cliche, soul mate.  It took six years to realize it, but we did, and together as a family it seems like it will all be okay, that we'll make it some way.  The only comfort about him being there and us being here, is that it reinforces our beliefs (and slight trepidation,) that our love as a family is palpable, even 140 miles away.

Can that love make up for those 36 weeks of anger and pain, though?  Or am I to be punished through his punishment?  That, truly, is Hell on Earth.  To watch helplessly as the merry-go-round spins out of control, and traps the littlest feet in the nightmare.  To watch him struggle, to worry and wonder, and in the end be sentenced harshly.

Suddenly, I'm out of things to say.  Time to shower, to put on a pretty face, and my best, most confident foot forward, for all of us need it today.

The one where she gets all teary...

My baby starts kindergarten in the morning. I am busily gathering together the last minute necessities - re-packaging her peaches so she can open them up, chilling her apple juice, making sure her jacket and backpack and lunch box are labeled, jotting down the things I need to remind her teacher of when I meet her tomorrow.

I can't believe she's this old. I can't believe five years has gone by so quickly. My beautiful baby has morphed into my beautiful little girl, and in the next blink of my eyes she will be my beautiful big girl and eventually my beautiful adult daughter.

I don't want the time to go. I want to hold her close to me while she's still small enough to fit on my lap, and whisper in her ear for ever how much I love her more than life. I want to always keep her safe in the same way I did when she was tucked away inside of me, nurtured by the very essence of my being.

I can't, though. I must put away my tears and nostalgia and my fear of change and instead dust off my confident smile. I must soothe her trepidations with assurances that I will be there the moment the bell rings to scoop her into my arms and tell her how proud I am of her for being herself.

I don't want her to go.

Collectively, as humans, we seem to have forgotten the definition of the term "Human Rights".

An Iranian woman, mother of two, is to be stoned to death.  For adultery.  For loving someone other than her husband.

She was flogged publicly in front of her children, and now she's to be murdered slowly in front of them.

This is a harsh but truthful description.  Does it make you cringe?  Turn away?  Does it make you sad?

I hope it does.  It should.  Because if it does, then it means that you'll take action.

Read Jessica Gottlieb's post that outlines how you can contact your local government officials, and gives a better overview of the situation, including links to CNN, as well as an interview done with her son.

Tell your friends, your family, and post on Facebook.

Tweet the UN:  @UN when will you intercede on behalf of #Ashtiani? http://bit.ly/bCeWGe 


GET INVOLVED.  THIS IS A HUMAN ISSUE.

Dem Boobs, Dem Boobs, Dem... Dry Boobs.

My boobs have been having an identity crisis lately.  It's a pretty significant one, I think.  The subject comes up daily, sometimes multiple times a day.  I try to avoid them, so that I can avoid that uncomfortable silence that inevitably follows their twin chorus of "Hi, we're your boobs, and we're having an identity crisis."  Seriously, how do I respond to that?


Complete avoidance is impossible, though.  Our interactions are something like this:

Me:  Hi boobs.  How are ya today?

Boobs: We're sad.  Look, we're looking down at the floor with our pointy nipple-eyes.  We're having an identity crisis.


Me:  Oh?  *uncomfortable silence*  Uhh... Umm... Why?  You're boobs.  Don't you generally do... boob things?  Like hang out?  I try not to put you in a bra, so you've got way more freedom than most of your other boob friends.


Boobs:  Yeah, we know.  And really - we appreciate that freedom.  Our problem is that we're dry.  


Me:  Oh, well I can fix that!  Here, have some nourishing lotion with vitamin E!


Boobs:  No, not like that.  See, we see you feed the baby, and we know that the milk you're giving him isn't from us.  Because, you know, we're dry.  This is the fault line for our shattering identity earthquake.  We mean, logically we know that you're giving him artificial milk because you're taking a couple of medications that you really can't go without right now, but we feel cheated.  We dried up suddenly and traumatically, and we're quite upset about it.


Me:  Oh.  Yeah, I can totally see that.  Oh look, brain and conscience are here!  Let's get them in on this discussion!


Brain:  Hey Boobs!  Lookin' good today, ladies!  You've got some super-hot circulatory action goin' on.  No worries, you can totally thank me later.


Boobs:  *stares*  Really, Brain?  Really?


Conscience:  So, I totally didn't mean to eavesdrop, Boobs, but I heard everything you said, and I'm right there with you.  I feel SO GUILTY about all of it, your drying up and Jackie taking meds and Brain just being brain... it makes me want to cry.  I even feel guilty about the fact that Leg went off and got herself broken, which is why you dried up to begin with!  It's totally ALL MY FAULT.


Brain:  Oh shit.  Look at what ya'll did.  Conscience is crying now.


Me:  Okay, hold it.  This is not going to turn into a three ring circus.  Brain, do you have anything useful to contribute?


Brain:  Well, that depends.  I do, out of deference for Boobs, go ahead and automatically make their pointy nipple-eyes hard every time the baby cries, as well as make them ache.  You know, 'cuz they're boobs.  That's what they're made for, amirite?


Me:  Right on.  You just keep on keepin' on.  Not like any of us could persuade you to do otherwise.  Conscience, is there any reasoning with you on this one?


Conscience:  No.  *sobs*  I'M SO SORRY ABOUT EVERYTHING!  I DESERVE TO DIE IN A FIRE!


Me:  *mutters*  Drama Queen.  *looks at Brain*  Can you take her out of here?  I'll deal with you guys later.


Boobs:  Now do you understand, though?  We're boobs.  We were put on your body primarily to nurse your offspring.  Sexual pleasure and looking awesome are just fringe benefits.  You let us do our job briefly, and then it was abruptly and traumatically taken away from us.  Now we're bereft.  What are we to do?


Me:  Oh.  Well, I... uh... *clears throat*  I'm really sorry.  I... I got nothin' else.  Can I offer you that nourishing lotion with vitamin E as a consolation prize?


And with that, my friends, my Boobs simply shake their heads sadly and wander away, until the next time I feed the baby.  Then the cycle starts all over again.

Logically, I know that relactation is not one of my most brilliant ideas.  Oh, I have no doubt that I could achieve it - and fairly easily, at that.  But what would it accomplish?  I would need to wean off of three different meds, and risk at best some very painful and at worst some very dangerous consequences.


Bug, I suspect, couldn't really care less.  There's still ample bonding and skin-to-skin during feedings.  Also, he's leading himself to solids, so it may be a non-issue here very shortly.  Health-wise, it's a non-issue completely.  


So where is the sense in all of this wistfulness and mourning over our lost breastfeeding relationship?  Why can't Boobs just suck it up, rub some dirt in it, and move on?  Why can't Conscience just get over her guilt?  Why can't Brain stop leading the mutiny on the bounty?


Because - breast is best.  For all parties involved.  People will try to placate us with "Well, at least you got *some* breastfeeding time in," but that won't help.  I don't disagree, and I *AM* thankful for the time we had.  But I would be a dirty liar if I said I didn't wish with every bottle of formula I make that it had been longer.  That we were still doing it today.

I learned to forgive myself with Kinder Major - she wasn't breastfed at all.  I will learn to forgive myself with Bug, too.  It's just going to take time.  Time, and a lot of "why relactating isn't a good idea" talks with Boobs.


Ladies, don't take your Boobs for granted.  And for those of you who haven't/can't/didn't (for whatever reason) breastfeed who are having similar talks with your Boobs... well, best of luck to you.  I hope you can make more headway with yours than I have with mine.