I wonder sometimes…
Traveling along this world of online journaling is an interesting experience. I, for one, don’t really expect that people actually read this (though, I know you do! and yay! I do love my 3 loyal readers!) as really, who really cares what I think? Even though each comment gives me a little thrill (yay! readers!) I still don’t write this FOR anyone else. I write it for me. Clearly I’m an exibitionist, or I’d never write at all, but in the end, it’s not for anyone else but me.
So what, dear Lessa, brings this up? Simple. People who use their space as weapons.
Now, now, I know what your thinking – the HORROR! and if it’s what you’re feeling, why shouldn’t you write it, since you write it for yourself, ultimately, anyway! Well, that’s not the kinda venting I mean. I mean deliberate attacks on another person, deliberate baiting them into a battle of words on a World Wide (Web) stage. I’m the first to tell people if they don’t like what they read here, to click the x – but admit it. We all like ‘watching’ just as much as we’re exhibitionists, and it’s like a trainwreck splayed open in pulsating burning carnage for our viewing pleasure!
This is why reality tv (of which i admit to an unhealthy addiction. heh) has such a wide audience. We want to see, we want to check in, we want other people to talk with about it “Did you see, did you know, omgwtfbbq!” We want to know that we’re not the only ones feeling this way, we want to feel suppior to those who have it worse, or don’t cope as well, or give ourselves something to live up to – be it actions, or words, or the way those words are applied, whatever.
But see – there’s reporting, relating our daily experiences, letting others into our lives – and then there’s the weaponry. Nothing bothers me quite so much as when the weapons of choice are children. We have a responsibility to raise our kids, the next generation, into well rounded, strong individuals able to find their own way in this world where other people don’t take that responsibility as seriously as we do. And it’s this thing, that last sentense right there, that totally fucks things up. We all believe our way is the One! true! way! to raise kids. My kids are better then yours, so on and so forth.
But there’s limits. My telling ladybug, for instance, that my kids? are SO much better then hers, is something we done for a long time, and neither of us really believe it. Because sometimes her kids ARE better! (Then, naturally, it’s because I’m their aunt. Heh.) The difference is that it’s goodnatured kidding out of love and fun, not out of actual belief that what I do is better then what she does. (Cause we all know it is. I mean. Yeah. Moving on. :p )
But people take it farther. Way farther. This box is NOT a place to use your children as a weapon against other people for any purpose. It’s not you who suffers, it’s not you who will be hurt in the end, and its ONLY you that you are thinking about. To become a parent is to no longer be selfish. You are not what matters, only the child. Your job is to now put that child first and do what is right for him or her. If that means getting a second job, do so. If that means accepting state aid, do so. If that means going without so that they can go with, do so. If it means putting off your happiness until later so that they can do/have something they need, DO SO.
YOU are the instrument in your child’s happiness. YOU are no longer the prime directive. The Child must be the focus of your will, and raising them correctly, NOT YOUR OWN SELFISH GAINS. To those who have forgotten that – I pity the children. You are doing irreversible harm. You are hurting the ones who should matter first.
It breaks my heart. You should be ashamed of yourselves.
So, what were YOU doing last night?
You know. My son is making it AWFULLY DIFFICULT to forget that he is a Freshman. Seriously. Last night? 5:30 pm, saw me running with him (well, driving. We all know that *allathis* don’t run. heh.) to the school, the HIGH SCHOOL, for ‘back to school’ night.
This involved, first, meeting with the Chior teacher (who, as I mentioned before, also taught me and Kevin in High School. heh) and discuss this years Choir tour they’ll be taking in March to Spain and France. (oh yes. we hate him. *L*) Holy hell, my wallet hurts, even thought I ain’t paid a dime yet. We won’t find out if he qualifies to go until the first of October. She needs to take a balanced choir, and obviously Freshman are the last to be picked, upperclassmen get first round, etc. They do fundraising, but since everyting for the trip has to paid so early on, the money earned by each student there is given back as a ‘refund’ type deal.
So, how much is this little trip going to cost? About $3200 bucks. That’s a guestimate for now, as it depends ultimately on the airfares they finally are able to lock in. Oy. That’s a hefty chunk of change, you know? First payment is due October 15th, which I should be able to cover with dividends (please be a good year, please be a good year). After that – well. We’ll see how it goes. heh. I may be putting up a fundraising button or something. All depends on if he gets to go.
Then! It was Meet the Teachers! We followed an abreviated schedule and went to each of his classes and met with the teachers. The boy seems well liked, and is doing really well, so that makes me happy.
One down moment was talking to another parent i haven’t seen in a while, who didn’t know of Kevin’s death. It always smacks me out of the blue – at this point, I’d think everyone knew. But it apparently isn’t so. The boy walked away while we spoke about it briefly, then came back for a hug, where everyone commented on how much taller then me he now is.
Harumph.
Not only am I OLD. I’m also SHORT.
Then, I find out that The boy needs to help with the Homecoming Float tonight. Yeah – did I mention it’s homecoming week? With all that entails? including a DANCE? a HOMECOMING DANCE? with HIGH SCHOOL GIRLS? Yeah. And one of them girls asked him to help with the float. The convo:
Theboy: I need to be *here* to help with the float. I get to use powertools!
Me: that ain’t why you’re doing it.
Theboy: true. she’s REALLY HOT mom. I couldn’t say no!
Me: muttersnarl
So. Tonight, he’s off to help this ‘totally hawt’ little trollop. And then Friday is the parade. and bonfire. And saturday the 2 football games. And that evening, the Dance. He still isn’t quite sure he’s going to the dance, yet, but he’s considering it.
Me, i’ll be here at home, consoling myself with my two favorite men.
Ben and Jerry.
liz_marcs: I Remember Townsend…
liz_marcs: I Remember Townsend…
Read it. I’ll wait.
Done? Good. I’ll be the first to admit I’m one of those American’s that just doesn’t pay attention to politics unless it directly affects me – and as a widowed white SAHM, not much really does in the broad spectrum. I don’t watch the news, I only read the ‘neighborly’ parts of the local paper (online, I don’t even subscribe), I’m more likely to know when Suri’s first pictures came out of who was able to “Make it work” on the latest Project Runway or who is the newest Superhero for Stan Lee. Even though those still have nothing to do with me personally – it allows me to keep a wall around me and mine in some attempt to protect them from the horrors that is the American Government. I’m not completely oblivious, I just choose not to spend all my time fighting the man or for the man. I have much more personal battles to fight.
Today is a day of rememberance for the familys of the 2996 who died and thousands more injured at Ground Zero. Many, many places are remembering, are gathering together to pay tribute, are still searching these five years later for some reason why, and someone to blame. I understand that search to lay blame on a far more personal level then I ever did before. Not because I knew someone there, or lost someone there, but because of my own far to recent personal tragedy.
Losing someone you love, unexpectedly, SUCKS. Losing someone so violently can only suck even more. Part of me, however, feels guilty. I can’t connect with those who of 9-11, and worse – I don’t want to. I avoid all of the tv shows, the movies, the sensationalization, the half-truths and lies of the media, the blogs of tribute today, everything that has happened over the past 5 years. Part of me doesn’t want to know. Part of me doesn’t care. All of me doesn’t want to have to examine it as closely as it deserves in order to find a personal truth. I have my own demons – I don’t need yours, theirs, the world’s also laid at my feet. I am not strong enough for that.
And even then – someone says “9-11” and I rememeber how MY truth went down, and how part of it is amusing even now because it was *so* Kevin, and how I ache that I’ve lost him, and how horrible the past year has been without him.
That morning he called – at ohmygodEarly – and told me to get up and turn on the TV, he’d call right back. It was something ungodly like 5am here. That detail escapes me, I just remember cussing him out because I should have been able to sleep another 2 hours before getting the kids up for school. I tuned in just as the second plane hit. I was watching as the towers fell. I saw each moment unfold on national tv all throughout the day – the fear for AirForce One, the hit on the pentegon, the terror in faces as the cameras captured every moment of this Life as a Movie event. The blue of the sky, the silence, the crash of the towers – I watched it all. It was unreal – surreal. I was very far removed from it all.
Then Kevin called again – and said “Get the guns. Make sure they’re loaded. I expect us to be hit, and expect Martial law.”
And I laughed. He was upset at me because of it, but man – I laughed. And laughed and laughed and laughed some more. Why the hell would anyone hit Alaska? Seriously? Sure, we’ve got oil, and that’s where he was, but… why? This was centered on the part of America that people think matters – if anything, I worried for my friends in California more then myself. Yet I had to agree to check the guns, and be prepared for an invasion in my tiny town of BFE.
He was so frightened for his family, even as I continued to chuckle everytime he checked that I was prepared. I had gone to town and filled up the jeep with gas. I had made sure that I had bottled water, and batteries and the flashlights handy. I was prepared to grab the kids and head toward Anchorage if they hit the Agruim plant. It was so him, so Kevin, so… pessimistic. But then again, he always watched the news, paid attention, loved political debates almost as much as he loved religious debates – maybe he knew something I didn’t. And still, I laughed.
I didn’t cry about it until I saw the faces of the families, lines of grief stretched across their face, empty terror and agony in the bottomless pits of thier eyes. They never thought it would happen to THEM either. Mothers holding children now made fatherless, as the death tole rose, higher and higher. How I hated the media then – invading these people’s tragedy, forcing their way in to get firsthand reactions to something that should be so personal. And they’ve never stopped – specials on TLC this week include the story as told by the children who lost parents, and I want to scream, to grab the nearest newsguy and shake him.
My grief for Kevin is personal, palpable, and has not subsided since I lost him a year ago. I cannot imagine what these people must feel like seeing snippits of their lives viewed by millions, possible distorted, some achingly real, either way being layed out for the consumption of the masses.
That is my reality. I understand, in part, that their ache is the same as mine. I know that my tragedy will be forever remembered in love by friends, family, those who knew us. I know that my husband’s memory is handled with respect, because I demand it, and because he deserves it.
I am glad I was spared the loss of someone during 9-11. I wish I were spared my personal loss as well. I can only take days one at a time, and avoid what I cannot handle. I am sorry, to those who were directly affected, that my personal tragedy eclipses your own. I can only hope that you have personal friends and family that support you, as I do.
That is the best I can do.
Happy Happy Lessa!
They came they came they came! Yup – I’m the proud new owner of two more Jason Beam prints – and a freebie printed on the back of his sampler that made me squeel like a school girl! Now I need frames so I can add them all to my Jason Beam Wall!
*SQUEE!!*
Homework hell..
So. School not only means “Lessa’s Nap Time is back in force!” but also Homework Hell has begun again, en force. The boy has been doing his in class – and surprisingly has been pulling straight A’s so far. Hopefully he’s totally going to keep it up – because man, a repeat of last year will likely KILL me. Heh.
The girl has been pretty good about doing her math homework, but I’ve already had to start nagging her on others. Hopefully starting nagging THIS early will again, stop a repeat of last year.
The pup. Oh the pup. Hand her a stack of math papers? and she’s one happy kid. See?
