The Atomic Mom

Mommy, why is she black?

Me : What color are you?

My son : *looking down at his arm* I'm brown, mommy.

[img courtesy of shepherdman.files.wordpress.com]
     

First I would like to start off with a bit of family history. The older generation of my family is, for the most part, racist. I have ancestors who were members of the Klu Klux Klan, or so I've been told. I often hear a couple of those not-even-funny "black jokes" at at least one of my family gatherings each year. This is not something that I am proud of. Not at all. It is something that I've grown accustomed to, however, and a lot of this racial hatred comes from my mother. I wouldn't exactly call it hatred, because she is not the type to choose another check out at Wal-Mart just because an African American was in front of her. Nor is she the type not to speak or associate with black people. She is just the type who believes that whites are superior, and that is how she was raised.

Don't get me wrong, my mother is a wonderful woman. She is strong, independent, and has been such a wonderful mentor to me throughout my life. Her racism is something, that after spending many of my younger years fighting against, that I have just learned to look over. They say that you can't teach an old dog new tricks, and while I refuse to believe that on most occasions, my mother is an exception. I have had many friends of various ethnicities throughout my life. I have dated men that were not caucasian. Thank God that mother bit her tongue during that time, even if it was only for my sake.. Being born in 1955, in the midst of the Civil Rights Movement, and taught her whole life that "whites" were superior has left my mother with a somewhat bitter taste against those of the African American race. My family is also from Kentucky, which during the Civil War was considered to have sided with the North, there were many southern counties in the state that were considered completely Confederate - and the county where my mother grew up was one of those few.

Some of her favorite jokes revolve around race.

She doesn't care a bit to drop the n-bomb.

But, she is my mother, and I love her despite her ignorance.

My son, on the other hand, is oblivious to skin color. I have done my best to teach him that skin color is merely that : the color of someone's skin. Also, one day I want him to be able to look upon his history with pride. See, while my son is considered to be Caucasian, his grandmother is a black lady. His father, with his green eyes and blonde hair, was half black and had a skin tone not much different from my own. Still, African American history is a part of my son, and it is something that I want him to be proud of. When he is older I want to teach him about the Civil Rights Movement. I want him to know the strength of advocates such asMartin Luther King, Jr. , and Harriet Tubman. I want him to know about all of the aspects of his genealogy, without feeling shame about any of it.

Thankfully, I haven't had to address those questions yet. The town where we live is, for the most part, made up of white people. On one occasion I did have a black neighbor drive by who my son mistook for the President. I realize that I have a long road ahead of me in teaching my son about these things, but for now he is doing wonderfully. He doesn't know about race, but he knows about skin color, and he sees it as just that : skin color. When asked what color he is he responds with, "brown," due to his beautiful olive complexion. He says that I am white, because of my extreme paleness. If I were to point to a black person and ask what color they are he would say black, because that is the color he sees. He doesn't know about hatred or racism. He hasn't had to deal with any of that yet, and I am very thankful.

I do know, however, that one day this will be an issue. I can even imagine the kids at his school (when he is older) bombarding him with racial slurs after finding out about his heritage, because the same has happened to his father (despite his caucasian appearance). Children are cruel, and the ones where we live are crueler than most when it comes to racial issues.

At the age of 5 this isn't something I worry about for him, but it is something that lays heavy on my mind for his future. How will I comfort him when he comes home from school after being called a mean name? How do I explain all of this to him then? When I think about the road ahead of my son my heart aches, but I know it is something that many before him have had to go through. I know he is strong enough to make it through unscathed, but am I?

Have you talked to your children about race? Have they had questions for you? How have you dealt with this issue? This mama needs some advice.

[Note : This is a subject that I plan on addressing much more frequently in the future. I would appreciate any advice you can give me or if you would like to do a guest post on the subject then let met know at mama2boys2010 (at) live (dot) com (or send any comments or questions, too). Anything you have to say will be greatly appreciated.]

Hangin' With the Dishes

[Disclaimer : This is a post taken from my Wordpress blog. In order to view the original post you'll need to go here]

So, this morning I woke up thinking I would send the 5 year old away on the church bus for a couple of hours. I had him go next door and get his buddies, whom are 9 and 6, and whose mother sleeps all day anway, and bring them home with him. Then I proceeded to watch them wrestle, scream, and fight over the PS3 controller for 45 minutes waiting on the church bus. I can handle 45 minutes of anything.

Well, if I were in a place where I felt as though cursing at church workers was appropriate - I would today.

HAHA God, very funny. Then I start to think that if I would have gotten my lazy arse ready, drove to church myself, and hoarded the pack of pups with me - this wouldn't have happened. Next Sunday, I'll be there with bells on. For now I've surrendered the living room (being as how a 5x5 box can only hold so many individuals), and have set up shop in the kitchen at the table - surrounded by this weeks dirty dishes, race cars on the floor, an empty cat dish, and emtpy cereal boxes. Which reminds me.. oh, wait, what was I gonna do today? My new work schedule leaves a lot to be done in the HOME department. But, heck, I don't get paid for doing dishes.. so I'd rather work.

The man is at work. This new weekend shift has it's ups and downs for us. My new weeknight shifts has its downs for ME, but of course he loves it. I may too if  I ever get a paycheck.

My back has been feeling funny today, and with every twinge my heart starts racing. I am 6 weeks prior to my due date, and I don't have time to have a baby today. Plus, I'm on some funky medication that interacts with pain meds, soooo... If I were to go into labor today I would do it med free. I don't even live life free of  medication, and I damn sure don't plan on enduring the most painful experience of my life sans meds. So, when I'm ready to give birth I will stop taking my medication 24 hours in advance.

This all sounds good and great to a first time mother, but see.. this ain't my first rodeo. There is no warning at the 24 hour mark that will tell me I only have 24 hours left. Labor is a mysterios and unscheduled event, but in a perfect world my plan would work out just fine. In MY world, however, this isn't the case. I expect my labor to start abruptly on a day I have taken my medication. I expect to beg for and receive pain medication at the hospital that will do absolutely nothing for me considering the medication I am on, and I expect to give birth with the joy of feeling every single bit of it. Every agonizing minute. I'm excited, can you tell? I would be, as I said, if this were my first child.

I can only sit here at the kitchen table and pretend to busy for so long. Chores are calling me, and it's not a very nice name that they yell. For now the children are occupied with gaming systems of every kind imaginable, and I'm okay with that. It's SUNDAY and tomorrow is a holiday, which means I'm off work, which means I'm doing nothing. So, I should probably get to scraping the hard dried cheese off of these plates.

We Await...

We are outside. I am smoking, and having my morning coffee (and twitter), and we're waiting on the 'moving guy' to come and take us away.

 

I so would've put myself in there, too, but I promise you that I don't look half as good as Amy from Selfish Mom in the mornings.

I'm actually not a nervous wreck yet though (even though I did just try to light my cigarette with my cup of coffee), but I'm sure I will be by the end of the day. (Good thing that make meds for that, huh..) My dear sweet mama has practically put everything together for me. She even went this morning and bought me a microwave, a coffee maker, and (wait for it. wait for it.) COFFEE! She knows how I am without my coffee.

I'm starting out with a little bit of nothing, but isn't that how everyone starts? I can build myself up from here. This is a new beginning for us, and I'm pretty dang excited.

Please excuse me while I go dig my pill bottle out of my purse,

 

Spare the Rod - Spoil the Child?

(This post was inspired by Catherine @ Her Bad Mother and all of the rumors floating around about Kate Gosselin's "child abuse".

I grew up in the south in a family that didn't mind to spank. I remember running laps around the dining room table trying to escape the grasp of my mother. I really did. I remember the spankings, and I remember that most of them were only enough to let me know that I had been spanked. I don't remember any really hard spanking, and none of them stick out in my head as being any worse than the others.

Spanking was a part of my childhood. If I didn't follow the rules, and if I didn't mind my mother and grandparents (mostly grandfather) then I got a few swift taps on the hiney. I don't see anything wrong with it. I'm not talking about all out beating your children folks, so let's not take this the wrong way. I'm talking about spanking. It has been around for many many generations, and probably for longer than history can record. It is a way of disciplining children. It works.

No, you don't smack them in the face. (I know how badly you want to sometimes..)

You don't beat them until they are black and blue.

When I say spanking I mean a couple swift taps to the buttocks or upper thigh. Does this sound cruel to you? Oh well, I guess that just means we're different, and that's okay, too.

I have seen some parents who all but beat their child(ren) in public. This doesn't seem very effective to me, and I do think that in cases such as this that the proper authorities should be alerted.

It is more effective for me to use the "If you don't straighten up, then you're getting a spanking when we get home" technique. This usually always brings out proper behavior, and there have been very few times when I've had to follow up on this statement.

I will go ahead and tell you that my 4 year old has been spanked maybe 3 times in his life, and all three of those times it has been by me. I have tried other methods. I have tried time outs, and discussions, and taking away privileges, but nothing is as efficient as a good old fashioned spanking. (Keep in mind, nothing too harsh..)

At the age of four he has started behaving worse than ever, which leaves me thinking that maybe the spanking should have started a little bit sooner.

I do know that our parenting styles reflect alot of how we were parented, and all of that varies tremendously from family to family. Just because one family disciplines by spanking and one disciplines by time outs, that doesn't mean that the former is abusive. There is a line that has to be crossed before it is considered abuse in my book.

As parents we are all different, but I think we could at least agree to disagree.

The Sheriff Came..

I tried to lay down and get some sleep after such a horrible day, but sleep eludes me. My mind is frantic, confused, and bothered. My heart is aching to the point of actual physical pain, and it's not understandable to me. Today, to say the least, was a very bad day.

I go to work to pick up my paycheck, and was told that I had written my schedule down wrong, and that I had to be there at noon rather than three. Okay, not that big of a deal. I ran across the street to cash my check and came right back. All day at work I was bothered and felt like things just weren't write. I wasn't worth a fuck at work. I couldn't stay focused, and I just wanted to leave so bad. At some point during the day I noticed that everyone around me was buzzing with happiness - they had gotten their summertime bonus. I was the only one at the company who didn't receive one. I know that I haven't been there a very long time, but they could have given me something. Anything. Five dollars would have even made me feel not so left out. It would be different if I weren't the only one not to receive one, but I was. Everyone else was told to just not discuss it. Oh, but they did. They were all so happy, and talked about all the nice things they could buy now, while I was standing around trying to think of ways to stretch my measly earnings for two weeks. I don't know why, but that hurt.

I managed to leave work a little bit early to see my baby graduate preschool. My mother was waiting on me outside. When we start to walk through the gymnasium doors I see him. His father had shown up. I managed to smile when I walked by, and said "excuse me" when squeezing between him and someone else. He said, "What are you doing?" I replied with "Oh, nothing.. came to see the baby." He was just like "yeah.." and that was it. My mom is following me and she starts vomiting at the mouth telling him to leave, and telling him that she doesn't even want my son to see him. He just walks off and sits in the corner. He wasn't doing anyone any harm, and just came to watch from the shadows.

That isn't good enough for my mother. She always has to feel like she won. She goes outside and calls the cops to tell them that he's violated the stupid E.P.O. she issued when he tried to bring my son's birthday presents last year. She actually put him in jail for that, and got an E.P.O.

In walks a sheriff, and he knows what's going on, so he starts walking toward him, and they walk out together. My mom is sitting in the stands smiling. I followed them out to see if he took him to jail, but he didn't. He just told him to leave. I was steaming by this point. I was so pissed that I was seeing red.

I mean, really, who the fuck does she think she is? I was actually very happy that he showed up just to watch my son sing silly songs and get a graduation certificate. He didn't mean any harm, and only planned on watching from the side. The baby would have never even known he was there. It made me feel good, because I remember being little and feeling so lonely when I would look up in the stands and only see my mom. I remember how the other children had big families up there cheering them on, and I never did. Even if he wouldn't have known, his dad would have at least been there to cheer him on, which is more than I can say for my dad, and who is she to take that away from him?? Yes, I know he wasn't very good to me, but he has always been good to the baby.

It just made me so happy to see him standing there alone on his own free will. I haven't even talked to him in a very long time, and I don't even know how he knew what time the ceremony was, but he showed up to sit on the complete other side of the gym and watch his only son from across the room. I mean, I would have gave him that much.

Oh, not mom. She plans on making sure that he NEVER sees my son. She has made that her mission in life, and she wanted him put in jail for it. Maybe I'm wrong, but I feel as though if I have gotten over the hell he put me through, and am able to move on.. then everyone else can at least be civil about it. I mean, I don't even think about all that happened in the past when I see him, but she will not let it pass. Will not. Then with her acting like a complete idiot in front of everyone, and thinking that she won when he was escorted out - oh it ate me up. This is MY life.. I wish she would just let me be.

Yes, he did something wrong TO ME. That is why we are not together, but I wouldn't stop him from quietly watching our son. Who am I to stop that? I don't even feel like I have a right from keeping him there, so why should she?

She just thinks she's something else. Damn queen of the world or something...

I am civil enough to forgive him. No, I will never forget, but I can move on to the next chapter. Why am I not allowed to move on to the next chapter?

Tonight's events have brought back so many painful memories of the past... and I'm sitting here with my heart completely torn to pieces. Watching him being escorted out was horrible, and I would have died if my boy would've seen that. I would have died.

The thing is that she's been like this my son's whole life. She has done anything and everything to keep his father away. She even swears every day that before she dies she will kill him. The sad part is that she means it. She is the last thing on his mind, but obviously she can't get him off of hers, and it's getting to the point where I've had enough. No, he's nothing to me, but he IS a human being. At least now anyway, and I am getting so sick and tired of this. Even when I was in the delivery room at the age of 20 she told the nurses that he was not allowed there, and to tell him to quit calling. He wasn't even "allowed" there for the birth of my son.. and my mother made sure she was after telling me that I was pregnant with a 'nigger bastard'.

I've got to get out of here as soon as possible. I'm 24 years old, and now is not the time when I need my mother trying to run my life.

She is such a sick sad woman. I just can't stop the tears. I can't stop my mind from churning and my heart from aching. This is MY life damn it. MINE. I want to scream that from the top of my lungs.

Help! My Child Has Been Abducted by Aliens!

I have lived through my first two weeks of having a job. It wasn't easy, and it's something I don't want to have to do for the rest of my life, but I have lived. Why do you have that look of surprise on your face? Well, thanks for your concern, but I'm doing just fine. We have amazing soft serve, and that makes it all worthwhile.

After spending the weekend telling my child not to touch anything, to quit hitting, and that his actions may just force mama to open up a can of whoop ass I have realized that he must have been abducted by aliens what a bad little boy my dear baby is turning into. Thank God he never hit (no pun intended) the terrible twos, because his behavior at the age of 4.5 makes up for every bit of it. I'm not sure what to do. Don't get me wrong, 80% of the time he is still a very well behaved little boy, but there is a 20% there that is almost too terrible for words.

Motherhood (in any form) Deserves a Celebration

When I was 20 years old and pregnant with my first child (and only one so far) I was told that I didn't deserve a baby shower, and that what I had done to get pregnant in no way deserved a celebration. It is true that I was young and unwed, and in a two year relationship with a boy that I probably should have never even met, but words like that are hard to hear for a scared young girl, especially coming from her mother.

It was for reasons such as those, among others, that I waited until I was almost 7 months pregnant to tell my mom, even though I lived with her during that time. During the second to last trimester of my pregnancy it was fall and winter, and I was able to wear big thick sweat-shirts in order to hide my tummy. I also spent most days trying to avoid my mother at all costs. The whole time my boyfriend's family said, "I can't believe your mom doesn't know," but she didn't, and I focused my entire being on keeping it that way. At what was supposed to be one of (if not the) most important times in my life I was busy hiding in my bedroom, bawling my eyes out, and working long hours to save money to move out, because I knew I would have to when I told my mom the news. Every fiber in my being and all the energy I had was put forth to keep my 'tragic' secret.

Then the day came. I have never felt such humiliation as when I told my mother I was pregnant. I believe the first word out of her mouth after me divulging my secret to her was "abortion." After I told her no that I wasn't doing that, and that it was too late anyway rage filled her veins and I was called anything from a slut to a whore, and the phrase that still hurts the most and makes me sick as it plays over in my head is, "you're just (insert boy's name here)'s little slut aren't you? That's all you are." These words scarred my heart, and still play over and over to this day. My beautiful son was then referred to as a "n*gger bastard," because his father's mother was African American, and I was told he would be an outcast to the entire family. Why would I want to do this to a child? Why why why? I can't repeat everything that was said, but you get the jist of it.

Needless to say, my family never gave me a baby shower, and actually I spent the last couple of months of my pregnancy hiding myself from society (at my mother's wishes demands). When shopping she would suggest that I go to the next town north so that no one I knew would see me. She wouldn't tell anyone that we knew. She didn't even tell the family.

While thinking about this period of my life, my heart swells with pain, and I'm wiping the tears from my face. I ache and yearn to have those 9 months back. I yearn to sit and rub my tummy and talk to my unborn child and play music for him, and I yearn to have protected him and myself from all those horrible words and that hell-on-earth that we lived in. It would mean so much to be able to enjoy the most important 9 months of my life as a woman rather than feel the humiliation and shame that was forced upon me.

One thing I remember very clearly is logging onto babycenter.com, and talking about my pregnancy in the forums. Every time mom would come near I would quickly shut down my browser for fear that she would look at me and see the bit of excitement twinkling in my eyes. That was not allowed, and would have only been shot down with a reminder that my "situation" was nothing to be proud of or excited about. I had heard this so much and it was beat into my head so hard that 75% of me believed it too by this point.

If I could go back I would do things differently. I would walk around proudly in public, without taking my mother's advice (or directions should I say) to not go into public in our town. I would buy beautiful maternity shirts instead of wearing over-sized sweats, and I would show off my bulging tummy rather than trying to suck it in and slouch over to hide it. I would enjoy my pregnancy and the changing of my body rather than being shameful. I would put together a beautiful nursery instead of throwing together the second hand things given to me at the last minute by my family who she didn't approve of my telling until around 2wks before my son's birth. Looking back I know that all of this was completely wrong, but who else did I have but my mother? Who does a young girl turn to in times like these? Her mother. So I acted on all of her suggestions, regardless of my better judgement.

Now, almost five years later, I know what it means to be a mother. Motherhood is not about marriage, although marriage is a beautiful thing. I've learned in my years as a single mother that marriage does not equal motherhood and motherhood doesn't equal marriage. Motherhood is about strength, endurance, soft smiles during 4am feedings, sweet kisses after bath time, reading Dr. Seuss over and over and over again. It's about time outs, and baseball games, and being "the meanest mommy in the world" every now and then. It's about hugs, and laughter, and chocolate covered faces. And, did I mention Dr. Seuss? That is a lesson that I wished I had learned 5 years ago. Another thing I wish I had known back then is that motherhood, in any form, deserves a celebration.

Happy Mother's Day!

Some Women Shouldn't Procreate. Ever.

Dear Lady at the T-ball Games,

   Although our children play together on a team I have grown to dislike you very much. Actually, it is to the point where I hate to even see you show up to their games anymore. At first I just though you were a bitch, but now I'm seeing what a narcissistic self-centered old hag that you are. The last game, where I heard you bitching about that lady smoking, is what really did it for me.

  You are not the only one on the side lines. Nor do I believe that someone should put their cigarette out just because you came and decided to stand directly behind them. Then you go and bitch to your almost-just-as-bitchy husband about "people smoking here should be more considerate - they should have a smoking section." Geez, lady, did you forget that we live in a free country, and also that it is legal to smoke in public in the state of Kentucky unless otherwise stated? Yes, I hate to be the one to inform you, but it is true. The sad part about it is that these women do step off of the sidelines. They don't smoke in the stands, and heck I've not even seen anyone smoking NEAR the field - they usually walk all the way back toward the school, which obviously isn't good enough for you who wants to stand directly behind them wherever they're at and then bitch about it.

  Yes, I'm a smoker. No, I do not blow my smoke in your or your child's faces, although I would like very much to do so to you. I'm pretty sure you just started bitching to your hubby within my ear range because you know I smoke. Did that make me feel guilty? Did I then weep for your overly sensitive nasal passages? Negative. I believe, if you remember correctly, that I stepped out of the dug-out, and off of the field and I lit one up. Why? Because I'm allowed to, and there's nothing you can do about it. I don't think my smoking 50 ft. away from you actually pollutes your precious breathing air any more than it already is.

  Yes, I did notice the day that you and your snotty friend were talking about me. I did see her look over at me, say something to you, and then you both looked. I'm pretty sure it was because I was smoking all the way across the field - alone. You must have been horrified, as I imagine. With cigarette smoke wafting 20 ft. away from you. How ever did you manage to live through it? Did your gossiping about me bother me? No, I learned how to deal with bitches like you and your girlfriend in high school.

  You know, now that I think about it, that same friend that you were talking about me with? Well, I'm pretty sure it was her son that you yelled at during our last game, and said to his father "You better go out there and get him before I say something!" Just because him and your precious offspring were goofing around on the field. Then after they pulled the poor boy off of the field, and actually left the game because of it, I'm pretty sure you were standing there talking to another lady about the one that was such a good friend of yours before. You know what that makes me think? Well, nothing. It just makes want to stand a little bit closer to you next time I light one up.

   Oh, and one other thing. I think it's hilarious how you manage to keep your hair bleached that nasty shade of blonde, and keep your legs perfectly tan. You think you're something dontcha? Well, you might have been back in the day, but not anymore, because the deep open wrinkles on your face and the liver spots all over your legs have gotten the best of your possibly once decent looks.

So, he's not dying AND I'm doing a book review!

Yesterday I was extremely sick. I had taken the kid to the doctor for his poor tummy that had kept us both awake for four nights, and I was freaking out because I thought I was going to have to excuse myself to the restroom* to puke while the doc was in there examining my child. What kind of mother would I have looked like if I would've left my 4 year old in there alone with his doc to tell him about his 'symptoms' all by himself?

Basically the doc told me that he's faking it! I had no clue that a 4 year old's mind is capable of concocting a scheme so grand that it not only kept him out of school for a day, but also kept us both awake for 4 nights! Amazing. I don't think I learned that until I was at least 10. Is he now going to be sneaking out of his bedroom window at the age of 6? I'm beginning to wonder. Needless to say, after the doc told him he was okay yesterday, he slept like a baby last night - instead if sitting up all night crying like one. I'm guessing that my 'sickness' yesterday must have came from lack of sleep, because after getting a good night's sleep last night I woke up fine and dandy this morning.

I'm grinning from ear to ear right now as I have been since waking up. You wanna know why? Sure you do. It's because I know all of those telemarketers and collection agencies and credit card companies are calling my cell right as we speak only to find out that I've changed my number! I thought it cost like $20 or so to change a cell number with AT&T, but obviously it doesn't, because Pup was able to do it for me last night, and now I only have to give my new number to the people that I want to call me, and that list will be very short my friends, let me tell ya. I even considered not giving the new number to my mom, but being as how we're living in the same house right now that could cause a teensy problem. As of right now only 2 people have this number, and it's been a lovely quiet morning.

I'm exited to announce that I get to do a review for someone who can actually put together a proper sentence! Author Rebbie Macintyre is mailing me an ARC copy of her book Cast the First Stone. If you know me at all then you know how much I like to read, and you will understand my excitement. Ms. Macintyre also has another book due out in Feb. '10 called A Corner of Universe. The plot line for this work goes something like this:

With hopes of saving her floundering marriage, Chicago physician's wife Zoe Sterling welcomes her adult stepson into her home on Universe Street, but her well-meaning intentions ignite events that jeopardize everything she holds dear--including the life of her unborn child.

She's also asked that maybe I possibly review that one for her, also. Oh yes I will. I can't wait. Check back soon, dear readers, for my review of Cast the First Stone, as it should be on it's way to me right now via postal mail.

Chuck E. Cheese on May 2nd (a very BAD idea)

My child has a somewhat sickening obsession with The Mouse, known to us parents as Chuck E. Cheese. He has seen this more-than-likely-creepy old guy in a mouse costume only once in his life, but has been infatuated with him/it ever since. Being the wonderful mother that I am not, we planned a trip to visit non-other than The Mouse himself. Okay, I'll admit I didn't plan it at all. It was Pup's idea. The idea of driving over an hour to see a stage full of robotic dancing puppets and a few money sucking over-rated games doesn't excite me too awfully much. But, on a day like today I should have known. For the love of gobstoppers, why didn't I know?!