Learning by example.

The values we aspire to teach our children are important, but the values we show our children are inevitably what they learn, no matter our intention. If you teach that all people are worthy of respect, while putting down people in another class, of another race/religion/lifestyle, I can guarantee your kids will act as you do.

“Do as I say, not as I do.” That was a familiar refrain when I was growing up. As a youngster, it meant I was to listen to my father and obey his words. Now that I’m older, it has another meaning: my father knew he was a flawed human being, and wasn’t going to be bothered to change his ways to be a better example. Don’t get me wrong, he was an example of many things, some good and some bad. A lot of my “teaching” was through lots of thought on my part, not from any conscious example of his. As an adult, even if mostly in years, I know that my daddy did and said many things he shouldn’t have, and made some mighty poor decisions, as all humans do. I also know that he taught me, through example, that actions speak louder than words; that honesty, no matter how painful, is always the best policy; that sometimes you have to swallow your pride and apologize; and that if you say you’re going to do something, you better damn well follow through.

My mother taught that all opinions are valuable; that people are equal; it’s important to think for yourself; and that family will always be there for you. What she showed me was that you can get what you want by manipulating others; people are only valuable by what they have to offer you; thinking for yourself means nothing if you don’t agree with the “powers that be”; and that you can pick and choose what family you have, or at least what family you prefer to interact with when you feel like it.

From both of my parents, I learned how to be a loner with friends. Someone with few memories of the past beyond what I chose to remember, or at least create to my liking (sometimes I have trouble telling the difference). My “broken home” shaped an odd amalgamation of simultaneously repressed emotion with explicit outbursts. My life experiences through high school only served to reinforce my outlook, and if it hadn’t been for university (despite its rough beginnings), I might have mistaken my reluctance to interact with others beyond my daily scope with true independence for the rest of my life.

My parents aren’t bad people. They may not have been the best parents all the time, but they tried. What they didn’t teach, I learned elsewhere – usually the hard way. It made the lesson stick a little more, and the bigger the lesson, the better I took it to heart. In some respects, it might have been better if I had been shown by mom and dad than the life experience, but it’s too late to change it now.

This comes up in my head now that I’m about to take on full-time motherhood. I worry, like all first-time parents, if I’m going to be a good mom; if I’m going to pass on more bad things than good from my life. I think all parents should worry , at least a little – after all, how can we check ourselves if we don’t examine our words and actions? The thing that I keep telling myself is that, unlike my parents’ divided style of child-rearing, I can learn with my kids while I’m teaching them. I can teach my children that it’s okay to be human, to make mistakes and learn from them, even if that means having to apologize or make amends at the expense of pride.

Shocking News! Police are people, too.

I love it when people take precious time to inform me that all police are assholes/thieves/power-mongers that only write tickets for a power jag; waste gas and taxpayer money by riding around aimlessly or sitting at the department; got into the job for the gun and badge; and so on. Usually, these are the same people that ask for a favor from my husband (no matter what jurisdiction they are/were in compared to his) once they find out he’s a cop. The same self-important assholes that rail against how unfair their ticket was, they were only going 68 in a 45, how dare that smug sonovabitch waste their time, don’t they know there are people out there shooting up gas stations?! The same self-righteous SOBs who explain that they were unfairly arrested a month or so ago when they only had a couple of drinks, that road sign had to have been new, and that trooper was hiding in the median – and wants to know if my husband might could get the charge reduced, even though my husband is a city officer and has no state jurisdiction, because all cops must know each other on an intimate personal basis.

Guess what, you self-satisfied jackwagon: if you didn’t break the law, my husband (and all his brothers and sisters in law enforcement) wouldn’t have jobs to do. So I guess I should thank you, my dear, for making sure my husband is employed.

Dear Mother-in-Law.

I love you. You’re great. Thank you for taking me into your home and your family with open arms. I got lucky as mother-in-laws go.

But you fucking irritate me. A lot.

In the event of death.

On March 22, 2011, two Athens-Clarke County police officers were shot in the line of duty, following a lead on a kidnapping and carjacking by a subject known to them. Senior Police Officer Tony Howard was shot in the face and shoulder, underwent surgery, and has since returned to work, though not patrol. Senior Police Officer Elmer “Buddy” Christian died on the scene, killed before he could even open the door to his patrol car, shot through his driver’s side window by the fleeing suspect. Four days later, the subject surrendered under a blanket of television cameras and microphones, reveling in his newfound publicity as a cop-killer. Thousands of people turned out for SPO Christian’s funeral, lining miles of road between the ceremony and the cemetery to pay their respects to the horse-drawn hearse draped in the American flag; and the mourning family that followed behind, including SPO Christian’s wife, Melissa, and their two young children.

We were living out of state at the time of the tragedy, and I remember following the unfolding drama as best I could on my iPhone, through the ACC scanner, the news, and text updates. I didn’t cry, which surprised me. Officer Down. I could only feel rage, resignation, and slightly relieved – because it wasn’t my husband on the news. (And afterward, guilty for feeling that way.) My husband knew SPO Christian, went to a couple of training sessions with him. The community really stepped up for the family in the aftermath of his death, donating time and money to see that SPO Christian’s dream of taking care of his family – to build a family home, to send his children to school, to make sure they want for nothing. It’s a shame that his dream was realized so quickly, without him here to see it, under the circumstances.

354 spent four years in a city that was like a Hollywood set – pretty on the main street surface, but get off the beaten path and find nothing but ramshackle construction and dark corners. Nine housing projects and four trailer parks within 10.5 square miles and a frequent stop on the pill trail up from Florida. The census data is never correct because there’s no telling who actually lives where or for how long. Usually there were no more than four officers plus a supervisor on shift because it was all the city would spend for the officers on duty – there was no more in the budget for additional officers, a common reply – and some you couldn’t trust for backup. I did my best not to worry when he left for work, but I did a lot of praying, and a lot of listening to the scanner app on my phone. He made sure to call or text me when he could, and I tried not to call him every five minutes to check up, in case I’d be interrupting him while he was on a call. There were some dicey calls that he called in the middle of, if he had a chance, to let me know what was going on and that he was okay; often I wouldn’t get a call until after things had calmed down. I never got a call from another officer, or from dispatch, to let me know that something had gone wrong and that I could meet him at the hospital; and I never got someone showing up at the house to take me somewhere to be there when he woke up. I had a dream, while he was on duty one night, that he got shot and was in a coma. I woke myself up, crying, and couldn’t bring myself to call him and make sure he was okay, because what if he wasn’t? I finally managed to send him a text, and got an almost-immediate response, but he still came home the next morning to find me wide-awake in the bed, waiting on him. He never left the house, or hung up the phone, or stopped texting me, without saying “I love you,” no matter how tired or pissed off or tense we were with each other. It was unthinkable that the one night we didn’t say it would be the night that would change everything, and neither of us wanted to live through the aftermath of that possibility knowing that we hadn’t told each other the most important thing.

It takes a special breed to be married to a law enforcement officer, a subset of the species that is the support base for public safety and military in general. You must be thick-skinned, to withstand the stresses of not exactly knowing when your spouse will be home or what’s going on while they’re on call, to shake off the rude comments and invasive questions that strangers will inevitably pose if they find out you’re married to a cop, to ignore the demands and hopeful requests from friends who hope you can somehow get their ticket reduced or thrown out, even though they might have been going twenty over in a 45, but what’s the big deal? You have to be self-sufficient, to some degree, because you are all things while your spouse is on shift – an off day can prove useful for the big projects, but the daily tasks like dishes and laundry and car maintenance and grocery shopping is largely on your shoulders. If you’re a parent, you must often be mom and dad, because Daddy’s asleep because he worked last night, let’s go to the park so you can play and we won’t wake him, okay? You must be okay with a limited social circle, because some people cannot be trusted, and a lot of people won’t understand the quirks that your husband possesses, like a requirement to sit facing the door at a restaurant and his habit of watching every single person that goes by the table, and no, we can’t eat there because there’s a strong possibility of running into some people he’s arrested. Most of all, you must be stronger than anyone imagines, because you don’t know, and you can’t afford to speculate or you’ll never get off your ass and get things done.

Because it is the first anniversary of his death, the local paper did a “look back” with SPO Christian’s widow, Melissa. They married in 1996, bought property in the next county in 2000, had two children, and planned their lives together, including their dream house to be built on the other side of the treeline. Melissa recounts her goings-on the day that Buddy was killed, including not being able to see her husband until the Friday after, and the voicemail that he left on her phone that she didn’t listen to until that afternoon. “Hey babe — checking with you to see how you’re doing. Love you.” 

I can’t read those words without crying uncontrollably.

I can’t imagine what Melissa must have been going through when she got back to the vet school and was met by all those people. Scratch that: I don’t want to imagine it. Selfish, yes, but I can hear the same words that Buddy left for his wife in my husband’s voice. He left me voicemails often that were to the same tune when he was on duty, called me and I couldn’t get to the phone in time. I don’t want to think of all those calls that went right that could’ve gone wrong. I don’t want to think of someone coming to get me at home because my husband was shot and killed in the line of duty by some lowlife drug runner with no honor and no sense or care. No one wants to be the sudden widow, center of everyone’s curiosity and sympathy, trying to field the endless lines of people while she comforts her children and tries to shut down her brain’s useless lines of thought so she can attempt to function. But for all of us, it has to happen to someone.

My husband is the light of my life. I couldn’t imagine what would happen to me if that light were snuffed out. If my child were left without a father.

God bless you, Melissa, and all the other spouses who’ve lost their officers. We think of you, and them, every day. Thank you for taking the unwanted burden with outward grace so that the rest of us don’t have to. We are here for you.

Realizing the benefit of unemployment.

I bitch, I’ll admit. That was the founding purpose of this blog, after all – as an outlet for my otherwise unreleased negatives. But sometimes I look and see things that remind me how bad it really isn’t, and I scold myself for acting as if the world is crushing my pretty lil’ head.

I am, for all intents and purposes, a stay-at-home mom, even though my boy won’t officially be “here” until June. I live in a three-bedroom, one-bath house with my husband, our three dogs, and his parents; we live here without expectation of monthly financial compensation or payback with interest, though if we had the means, we would supplement however we could. Neither of us are employed full-time, though we are actively looking despite a down economy and me being in late-stage pregnancy. Looking at all this as most people would, we are in a shitty spot: in our 20s, married and expecting, with 3 mouths to feed already and another on the way; no careers to speak of, a mountain of existing debt (thanks, college education and credit cards!) and more on the way, mooching off his parents and the state (medically speaking only). From the outside, we are the kind of people your parents – hell, my parents warned me about becoming.

But you know, we’re doing the best we can. We’re not living here because we’re lazy and don’t want to get a job or pay our way in life; we’re living here because circumstances dictated it was this, government housing, or our cars. We’re blessed to have family that supports us as best they can, until we can get back on our feet, and is thoroughly excited about having another mouth to feed new baby in the house in a few months. My husband has a part-time job with benefits available until something else comes through. We have a friendly, loving church family that is willing to do whatever needful to help anyone in their time of need. And despite the fact that I am a college-educated, independent woman in my 20s who should be holding down a budding career like my peers, I am instead finding myself appreciating the little things through the day, like a clean kitchen floor, freshly washed dogs, and hanging laundry on the line.

I will continue to bitch, because I feel like some things need to be bitched about (like people’s general un-appreciation of police officers and their positions), and some things I need to get off my chest before I open my mouth and say something out loud (such as situations with my in-laws, or the fact that the nursery-in-progress is repeatedly cleaner than my bedroom because my husband can’t remember to put his dirty underwear in the hamper but will throw a fit if the dust isn’t swept off the nursery floor paper covering when he’s done working). But this is here as a reminder to myself, and anyone else, that there is a silver lining; that it really isn’t always that bad; and even when it is that bad, it will get better.

“Everything is all right in the end. If it ain’t all right, it ain’t the end.”

The recurring cycle of maternity denigration.

“Don’t worry, when that baby comes, nobody’s going to know your name!”

“When that baby comes, everybody’s going to forget who you are. The only name you’ll remember is ‘Mom’!”

“Enjoy it while you can, when that baby comes, you’re never going to be able to do that again!”

I will never enjoy the phrase “when that baby comes” because of the above comments, and all the rest I left out. Usually said in a tone intended either as some perverse comfort, or in perverse amusement. What makes moms, or other women in general, think any of those comments are okay? Is it just because someone said the same things to them once upon a time? Because they’ve heard it time after time, and it’s become one of those “things you just say”? I don’t understand. Can anyone tell me if this is a solely Southern phenomenon, or do other regions have this as well?

Think about what you’re saying – even if the woman you’re talking to wasn’t hormonal and anxious about being a first time mother (because who would bother saying that to someone who already has kids), you’re basically telling this mother-to-be that her entire life as she knows it is about to collapse in her face because of the child she’s carrying. Instead of giving her another reason to celebrate the birth of her child, and being excited about his/her impending arrival, you’ve just added another reason for anxiety – she’s about to stop existing, as far as the rest of the world is concerned, because the baby will eclipse all things. She will lose her personality, her individuality… everything. Can you think of a better reason for perinatal or postpartum depression? Those are the kinds of things I was afraid before I got married, things that could have kept me from getting married, or having children, or anything remotely related to what people consider a “normal and well-adjusted life.” It took a tough round of self-therapy and trust in my husband to overcome those feelings, and I’m intensely glad that I did. Other women may not have that luxury of therapy, a constantly-available support structure, and an environment of trust and love that allows for those fears to go away.

“Don’t worry, when that baby comes, you’ll just have been another baby-machine!”

“When that baby comes, you’ll totally cease to exist in the eyes of others! Your only memorable contribution to society is that baby!”

My literal “translations” (above) are a touch harsh. I know I’m over-reacting, just a bit. It’s just one of those things that drive me up the wall, a phrase that I have heard from all those overly-huggy old women at my in-laws’ church (along with “We are so proud of y’all!” which is just a comment that confuses me in general), while they try to rub on my stomach to “feel the baby,” and stamp their little feet over the baby. Jesus, y’all, settle down. Nix that – go ahead and be excited, because when the baby comes you’ll all be talking about how I won’t let that baby go into the nursery and how it must be the post-pregnancy hormones that keep me from letting anybody hold that baby instead of the desire to keep most of your snotty-ass kids away from my child and his currently non-existent immune system. And probably what a heathen I am for nursing him during the sermon, instead of taking that baby out into the lobby to privately do that. And Lord knows what else I’ll do wrong. (Except I don’t care.)

Small church lady tangent aside, if you find yourself suddenly in a place where that phrase comes tumbling through your brain (I’m sure I will not be immune to it, despite my loathing.), stop for a second and take a moment to replace it with something a little more supportive. Something a little more comforting, a little more cheery.  Even a simple “Congratulations!” or “That’s so exciting!” is better than “when that baby comes,” no matter how much you mean well by it.

I watch too much BBC lately.

I wouldn’t be surprised if the baby comes out with an odd accent. Welsh or Irish or sommat. My morning routine now involves at least two hours of The Graham Norton Show, and maybe an hour of Doctor Who (11th Doctor). Seems healthier than watching some of the crap on standard American television – Hoda and Kathie Lee? Good Morning, America? No bloody thank you.

When I was younger, I watched a lot of Absolutely Fabulous, Monty Python and Faulty Towers. I had a tendency to get ‘stuck’ in an accent. Did/Does that happen to anyone else? I once got stuck in a Scottish accent in my high school Spanish class and nearly got sent out of class! It wasn’t my fault. I just couldn’t remember how to get back to an American tone. I’m preferential to Eastern Euro accents – I’ve never been partial to anything from the Eastern Bloc, say, or Mediterranean.

I was always afraid I’d meet someone from Britain or Wales and thoroughly embarrass myself talking to them. Fortunately, it never happened, but I still worry it could one of these days. Blessedly, I think I’m over it. For the most part.

What’s your favorite accent?

Maternity blouses. Please explain.

Maybe I just don’t look in the right places. Maybe it’s just that I only started getting maternity blouses now that the end of the 2011 retail season hit, and all the maternity sections seem to be magically diminished to a couple of racks of paisley blouses and some odd-looking denim capris with elastic that doesn’t even go high enough on your belly to count as maternity jeans. By the way, I have one pair of mid-belly maternity jeans, and I am convinced that my ass is shrinking while my belly is (very slowly) growing. My ass is falling, y’all. Ridiculous. Anyway.

Why is it that all maternity tops must be horizontally-striped and/or show off the grand majority of one’s boobs? Come on – as if pregnant women really have a desire to appear larger than in real life thanks to a poorly-designed blouse. Unlike me, who has actually lost 10 pounds since her 8-week confirmation appointment, there are women out there who actually are showing by their second trimester, and have no desire to look larger. Even more, no woman wants to look bigger than she really is – so why the horizontal stripes, pregnancy tops?

Why must the necklines – v-neck, scoop or otherwise – be somehow so low as to show off half my bra when I first put on the top, and show off the rest of my boobs when I finally adjust you to the point that the empire waist is sitting somewhere on my underwire? My breasts are growing quite nicely, but no one has to know that just by glancing at my neckline instead of my shirt in general. Is a decent non-boob-showing shirt too much to ask? Without horizontal stripes that make my boobs look two cups sizes larger than in reality?

Am I just way too new to this maternity shopping thing? Or is this a constant design flaw?

League Opener.

There are a lot of things in this world that worry and frustrate me, like cop-hating hypocrites and self-righteous parenting advisers who don’t have children and people who rant against agriculture when they think food only comes from the grocery. There are a lot of things in this world that scare me, though to various degrees, like being a new mom with absolutely no clue what direction to go, and worrying that I’ll never be able to find a stable job. I find I’m very strong-minded with regard to my dogs, my husband (and his profession), agriculture and today’s excuse for general parenting techniques (i.e. shoving kids off to school too early and expecting the teachers and police to raise them), and a bunch of other stuff. But I don’t think it helps anyone, least of all me, to keep everything quiet. How does change start if somebody doesn’t say something? And how do I keep my head from exploding if I don’t say something somewhere? I’m much better at putting words on paper (or screen) than I am speaking them aloud. This is my therapy – I’m inviting you along for the ride.

Disclaimer: This may not be your particular cup o’ tea. I can get rather woofy over some subjects, and often a little profane. It’s fairly natural. I’m not perfect. What I think is right may not conform to your ideas of great and natural. That’s fine. I’m not putting my ideas out here because I’m looking for validation. It’s more like therapy. If you agree, that’s wonderful – if you don’t, that’s great, too. I’ll be happy to debate with you, as long as you don’t make an ass of yourself. I’ll try to do the same.

All that said, and I’m done sounding like a heinous bitch, here goes nothing.