Not that the others have been at all bad, they just weren’t perfect.

On my first Mother’s Day, JB bought me a little snow cone machine.
What, you say?

You see, my first real job (which required a wee exaggeration about my age) was back up snow cone maker at the flea market. People, you haven’t lived until you’ve worked at either a flea market or as a carnie. These things are important, eye-opening life experiences.

My second Mother’s Day I was puking my way through the first trimester of Elliot’s gestation. I spent several months bitterly accusing everyone of hiding onions in their pockets since no where in existance was there a place not reeking with onion taint. I also febreezed the dogs. A lot.

My third Mother’s Day… um? I had a small infant with weight gain issues and a 2 1/2 year old. I don’t even remember the third one.

My fourth Mother’s Day, I hosted my mom and her sister as part of Mom’s 60th birthday. The original plan was for JB to take the boys with him, but large chunks of the interstate were torn up from a really nasty tornado a few weeks beforehand. Since he was getting blasted from all sides with reminders about the fury of mother nature– a lot of damage near and around us, he was really suffering with the anxiety. So instead of getting breakfast cooked for me, I was cooking breakfast. Hunh, suddenly not feeling so bad about my own mom’s tardy Mother’s Day present this year.

This one though, the fifth Mother’s Day? Perfect Mother’s Day.

And why? Because I was selfish as hell today, y’all. Couldn’t have done it without my darling husband–so much thanks JB!

I slept in, ate waffles that I didn’t cook, crawled back into bed to read, took a nap. Woke back up at 11 am(!), called my own mom. Ate a lunch I didn’t cook, listened to my oldest read a book about Tom Sawyer, played with pictures, and then ate a dinner I didn’t cook. Sort of ran. Surfed the internet.

I didn’t do a load of laundry, wash a dish, wipe a butt, or blow a nose. I didn’t negotiate fights. I didn’t do bath time, change bed sheets, or answer the whining cries of over-tired children.

I didn’t do a single load of laundry (I’ll regret that tomorrow), vacuum up a single speck of dog hair, sweep a single floor. I sneered at a dirty toilet (BOYS!), but didn’t clean it.

JB bought me a cordless, lightweight drill. Perfect for my oddly child-sized hands. My kids made Mother’s Day cards with a Ghostbuster’s theme.

I totally rocked my pipe-cleaner bracelet today.

More than that, I sat and thought about the many things that made me happy last week, even during a week where many things made me sad, angry, and mean.

Watching this guy swagger into preschool graduation, very full of himself (in a good way).

Excuse me a minute, wasn’t he a year old, like a minute ago? I didn’t get all weepy about him graduating; I really enjoy having semi-self-sufficient children. I’m thrilled that my sleep deprivation is now by choice, and that I no longer wear spit up in mockery of flower corsages.

Then there is my entomologist in training. I already heard the phrase “we can catch the lady bugs with the light sabers” when the Small People and the Small People friends released a dozen in the bedroom… on accident, of course. It doesn’t take much for me to recognize that I will eventually find some container of unrestrained bugs in my house.

But only the worms get to drive the John Deer.

There is something very sweet about the three year old– because when life is very good for him it’s very good. And when it’s not good, he very calmly asks for a meeting.

We played host to Jenny, which was lovely because she’s a lovely girl. On the morning of her scheduled departure, Elliot was kind enough to pack her suitcase and roll it to the front door. I mean, she wasn’t leaving until around dinner, but he was ready. It would seem that splitting the attention of his two favorite people, me and Zach, isn’t on his To Do list.

Or maybe he had Batman shirt envy.

Bow-chicka-wow-wow, lady bug love. It makes me giggle, because I’m 12.

Having a fellow drill-as-gift-recipient and DIYer link to me in a Mother’s Day post as a mom who makes her think. I like to make people think, as long as it isn’t “what a ditz”.

And finally, Noah, covering I’m Sexy and I know it.

It’s not a new feeling.

Some of the things I’ve heard come out of the mouths of…

Ahhhh—- take a deep breath, shake up my calm-down jar. Pretty glitter.

Okay.

I’ve read the calmer statements– and man, oh man– I wish I could be them.

I do. Sort of.

Imagine graciously delivering a statement calling actions bigoted without being abrasive, or obvious?

I know a woman with a talent like that– though not, to my knowledge, used for that particular purpose. My cube sat outside her office for 3 years– you’d think some would have rubbed off, but alas no such luck.

Often I try to use sarcasm, only to get really sad when the recipient doesn’t get it.

Le sigh.

It was The Day After North Carolina Embarrassed Us All, but I still had to drive Zach to preschool. On the radio– NPR’s The State of Things with guest, Macky Alston, director of Love Free or Die. His voice… was so soothing, so rational, so healing.

Here I am exhausted, depressed, smelly, unbrushed hair… preparing to drive to carpool after a morning spent trying (and failing) to be positive and gracious. Attempting to explain the loss to my 5 year old–who has yet to lose an important vote. And, quite frankly, doesn’t understand why adults are so stupid about things.

Then I’m half-sobbing listening to this gay man– a christian, a father, a husband– reassuring the defeated that progress has been made.

I’m listening to him, and seeing the signs all over the interstate FOR the amendment. It’s exhausting, those kinds of sensory assaults.

I wish I could be that guy. Or, this guy, Justin Lee. I don’t share his religious beliefs, but the very existence of a Gay Christian Network makes me all gooey inside.

You see, I’m an atheist, but I don’t blame religion. One, I know too many decent religious/faithful people. Two, I know too many hateful people that need the threat of eternal hellfire to behave themselves.

Civil rights, for women and for blacks– started in churches. Having faith makes someone faithful, not hateful.

After all, I don’t support those that seek to blame all Muslim’s for September 11th– so for me to blame all christian’s would be… illogical and unfair.

I do, however, blame the men and women that pervert the text of a religious book to fit their own whims, politics, personal fears, or prejudices. Especially those that pluck out a passage or two to support their reasons, and ignore the rest.

It makes me furious that people use the constitution as a shield for their own rights, and as kindling for someone else’s. Furious.

But that’s okay, movements need the angry people, too. If for nothing more than to make the gracious people look better. That I can do, no problem.

By the way– it’s late, and I’m sad and angry. Raging, actually. I remain convinced that the intent behind passing the marriage amendment was always devoid of religious conviction, the purpose only for re-election. I see what conservatives mean about too much government because their power? That sort of extremist-fly-a-plane-into-building-mentality? Horrifying.

Protecting the rights of even the least individual among us is basically the only excuse the government has for even existing. Ronald Reagan.

Even Ronald Freaking Reagan wouldn’t be down with this nonsense.

I saw the For signs decorating too many surfaces today. I suspected the outcome. But I was hopeful, mostly that many closeted homosexuals would say “for” and vote “against”. But it didn’t turn out that way.

But what made me pull over and park after carpool was my 5 year old saying, “don’t worry, Mom. I’ll fix it [discrimination] when I’m a grown up”. There you have it everyone. Even a 5 year old sees it as broken.

Perhaps the zealots plan to attack my atheist marriage? After all, if the origins and definitions of marriage are purely biblical, then my marriage doesn’t apply. Right?

Thanks to facebook I felt a little less alone, less isolated in my horror.

But then… then someone decided to point out that the people had spoken. And that I should just get over it. After mulling over what I wanted to say, it occurred to me. I had already written it.

Being a bigot is wrong. Complaining about big government, socialist spending, and then supporting an amendment to the constitution because you are terrified of homosexuals is WRONG. Racism, sexism, animal abuse– wrong, wrong, wrong.

There are PLENTY of christians, conservatives, purple people eaters– friends of mine, that do not, and did not support this hate bill. They are the type of christians that I wish the rest of you could/would be; the ones that use faith as a personal enhancement rather than a weapon.

Oh, and celebrators? You might have won tonight, but I wouldn’t get too comfy. This action motivated all of the smart people I know. And I don’t mean, Jeopardy-smart, I mean Sheldon-smart. So, good luck with that.

May 8th– tomorrow, the big voting day. The final chance for my fellow North Carolinians to power their way through the screaming “you’re going to hell” protesters, into that voting booth and say–with an emphatic NO– we will not support Paul Stam’s bigoted hate legislation.

Oh wait. You support* the amendment, but dislike being called a bigot? You feel that description somehow unfair? You assumed the responsibility for defining what god meant– and denying what Jesus preached– only to get antsy when others disagree with your interpretation?

Not only do I disagree with the hate-interpretation, I think your Jesus would, too. After all, he did say love thy neighbor, not loathe thy neighbor’s lifestyle.

*Many of the faithful do not support the amendment– I’m not speaking to them. It’s not religion I blame, but those that use religion as an excuse for their hate.

I was shocked and disgusted to hear the painful rhetoric from Sean Harris.

What I feel after hearing Paul Stam’s admittance to being influenced by the Alliance Defense Fund resembles a really unfortunate case of food poisoning. You really think this sort of lawmaking is appropriate? That the time and money spent by legislators on morality legislation somehow justifies those same resources being denied for things like jobs, education, and health?

You’ve been convinced that your neighbor’s homosexual marriage will somehow result in the sexual abuse of your dog?

Are you stupid? And I apologize–sort of–because I know that calling y’all stupid doesn’t make you amenable to listening to my reasoning.

But, for serious, can you explain the logical progression from equal rights for consenting adults to bestiality? Or child marriage– which, seems to exist almost exclusively with ding-ding extremist religions.

I’m just so… fucking angry. I try, so very hard, to be a tolerant atheist. I don’t lump all of those of faith into one bigoted bucket of bullshit. Really, I don’t. I’m the happy atheist, spending a lot of time trying to explain to my atheist brethren that to scream “ignorant idiot” at all of those with faith makes us no better than those screaming “heathen baby-eater” at us.

But it’s getting hard for me to maintain my secular humanist version of Kumbaya in the face of the religious right’s fungus-like infiltration of my democratic system. Take it from an objective bystander- your Jesus will not reward you for this hatred. None of these actions have anything to do with the words attributed to him.

Ladies and Gentlemen of North Carolina– those of you that seek to defend the Constitution. How can you wave the constitution in my face? And if you do, can you explain why it’s appropriate for the Alliance Defense Fund, a Christian legal group to write NC legislation.

Where is my separation of church and state?

Y’all know– that little constitutional thing that churches parade out as a reason for not paying property taxes, or providing health insurance with a birth control clause?

You (religious corporations) do not get to participate in writing legislation without participating in paying for government.

So, seriously– where are my protections guaranteed to me with the separation of church and state? Or do I need to approach this separation from my 3 year old’s perspective on toy sharing: an absolute, but single-direction, right?

While we’re at it– can someone help me with an age-appropriate (for a 5 year old) explanation, should this pass? Because though I nailed it when explaining why we vote against the amendment, I’m fighting the need to yell, “because they are stupid-heads” when explaining why anyone would vote for it.

I could just tell him that “the religious right has purchased the lawmakers in our state and have proceeded to write legislation out of fear and deep hatred” but I think it’ll confuse him.

After all, it confuses me, too.

Unlike Jodie Brunstetter, the wife of Republican North Carolina state senator Peter Brunstetter, not all of us believe that the only way to save the Caucasians (we’re in danger? I didn’t know) requires the repression of equal rights for the LGBT community.

Unlike Pastor Sean Harris of Fayetteville– my Army-Brat-approved hometown– we don’t all advocate beating the gay out of our children.

It’s important, The Rest of America, that you understand that many of us consider ourselves native North Carolinians– and we don’t believe this way.

Just once– JUST ONCE– I would like to see my hometown/state in the news for something not related to crime and/or redneck bigots*. Which requires the law-abiding non-redneck bigot voice to speak louder.

*Note: Not all rednecks are bigots; not all bigots are rednecks. Conversely, redneck bigots exist outside of the South. Case in point, Pastor Harris was born in Massachusetts, so damnit, NC doesn’t have to take all the blame for him.

My Loud Voice:
I grew up in Fayetteville. My childhood home located less than a quarter mile from this church; I spent 5 years at the public school next door to Berean Baptist. I’ve watched it grow from a smallish church with some modular buildings to a mega church looming on a busy corner. The proximity of this place to my childhood memories makes me feel queasy and unsettled.

Dear Pastor Harris,

I spent most of last night listening to your sermons–many of them, not just the notorious one; I read all of your blog posts. I read your church’s Articles of Faith, and your Constitution (though navigating to it today proves difficult, glad I PDFed that sucker).

I found very little reason and logic, but one bit of good advice:– that a person has to explore the before and after of an event to truly understand the context. Of course, you were talking about verses in the bible, and I’m talking about your personal world view.

I understand the over-reach of political correctness is often a minefield. But–really, the blind guy doesn’t care, because he didn’t the spit coming? Gah, this made me feel icky.

He [referring to Jesus] pulls him [the blind man] out of town. He is not trying to have a big show of healing people in this town. He’s going to take care of this man, grabs him, leads him out of town, spits on his eyes. Gross! Right?

Moreover, if you are blind, it is not quite as big a deal.

It is not like you saw it coming.

Because of my time spent in your head— and listening to your words, reading your thoughts–provided me with a most unsettling glimpse– I’m 100% confident that not there wasn’t one iota hyperbole in the April 29th sermon. And I listened to the whole thing– all 54 minutes. A few times.

Even now I’m listening,– helps me focus– and I must say, dude, your micro-expressions and body language conflict with the words coming out of your mouth. In those moments when you start speaking of homosexuality, I find myself hearing the vehement hatred in your words, in your tone of voice, and watching the exponential increase of hand-flapping. That level of…is it self-directed hatred Pastor Harris? It’s hard, I imagine, to feel such loathing without personal experience.

I have complete faith in your belief that a parent can beat the gay out of their children. Who was it that beat the gay out of you?

Was it the pastor that “dealt” with you so very long ago?

I must admit, Pastor Harris, that when considering everything in context, that I find myself thinking that yes, you drove around Fayetteville lusting (your words, not mine)– but that it wasn’t females stirring your holy pole.

You, Sir, both moron and bigot, embody the perfect example of the supporters of this marriage amendment. I sat astonished at your bastardization of statistical facts and the absurdity fueling your political rhetoric. Around the 36 minute mark when you manage to draw a correlation between the closure of NC textile mills with the rampant procreation in the Malaysia? All for support of why we cannot allow gay marriage– because there will be no more children to be exploited in textile factories?

Oh my– priceless.

Though I am a bit perplexed at how you are registering folks (see minute 3:38, “not too late. you can get a voter registration form this morning”) to vote and maintaining your tax exempt provisions?

I’m also confused why y’all refer to yourselves as a corporation, yet don’t pay property taxes?

But, back to the point at hand:

A large part of me would like very much to “squash like a cockroach”– oh, you SO weren’t joking when you said that– the straight out of you. However, I payed a teeny tiny bit of attention during biology– so I understand that’s just an excuse for violence against something that disgusts me. That disgust, by the way– all for you.

Of course, you seem to believe that a person chooses homosexuality. According to you, this fact stems from the studies (not cited) of differing sexual preference between identical twins. Because if homosexuality were genetic, then both twins would be gay. Um, you do understand that for the first 6 weeks of gestation all fetuses are females, right? And while identical twins start from the same egg, that there is a lot of really complicated stuff that happens afterwards? Otherwise we’d all be born with tails?

Just saying.

You spend some time talking about the sin of stealing and correlating that to homosexuality. Because they are ALL SINS.

I admit I’m pretty hazy on many parts of the bible– something for which I thank my parents for every single day– but I’m reasonably certain that lying is one of those sin things y’all talk about.

On Wednesday, Harris said he regrets his choice of words and doesn’t advocate hitting children.

So, Pastor Harris, if you don’t support hitting children could you address the verbiage in your church’s constitution and articles of faith?

From SpaceCamp? No? JB had never seen it either, which downgrades his Eighties movie knowledge from Deficient to Abysmally un-American. I could focus an entire series of posts on the movies he’s not seen. Hey…

However, tonight I’m hear to talk about meeting a astronaut. My friends, when I stop to catalog my many blazing failures as a wife and mother? Then I consider last week’s’ Air Force One adventure and tonight’s Meet the Astronaut? In my opinion, any surplus emotional capital now lives in my corner.

I wouldn’t know a Bieber if he sat down next to me, but I am over the moon (pun=totally worth it) about meeting an astronaut. That’s me, Proud Geek. Then I realized that Space Camp has an adult program. It’s ON, people. Who wants to go to camp with me?

Wait- back to the kids, since this is about them, right?

Not only did Zach meet a live one, complete with blue suit and nifty patches, but Bill– we’re likethis– approached Zach rather than waiting for Z to chase him down. I expected an astronaut to be pompous, but William McArthur, a North Carolina native was above and beyond (again, totally worth it).

Zach, to his credit didn’t drool on himself. But other than name and rank, he was basically speechless. My son. Speechless. The child talks in his sleep.

The pictures, Stephanie. Yes, well. As it would turn out, my camera made it, but my SD card did not. Nor had my phone (so I thought). A few minutes after taking this shot, JB took back his phone and wandered off with Elliot.

To look at a Turtle. When less than 5 feet away, stood an astronaut that has BEEN IN SPACE. Sigh– can you just visualize the gnashing of teeth and wailing (mine) that could have been?

But then during the presentation Bill called on Zach by name. Who needs a picture of their very first meeting when you have this one?

Zach’s face stayed like this for most of the talk. Without words coming out of it.

Except during the questions.

When McArthur asked what types of supplies might be delivered to the Space Station, I muttered Tang. Which Zach overheard and answered.

Cue audience laughter. Next step– show Zach a container of Tang.

At the end, before the Colonel could finish “any questions” Zach’s hands flew into the air.

You never know what’s going to come out of a 5 year old’s mouth, so both JB and I tried to get him to ask us first.

Nope.

“Is the robot still on Mars” was his question. Not, “what’s it like to pee in space”. Though that’s also a valid (IMO) question.

Yes, is the answer, by the way. With a new one going up August 6th.

Then, after the Colonel reminded the audience that China also wants to explore space, but–unlike everyone else–doesn’t want to share knowledge, Zach had another question: “well, what happens if they get there first?” Very much concerned that if China calls “shotgun” on space that we’ll never ride front seat again.

Actually…

By the time we left–with assorted schwag, autographs and foam astronauts– two very tired kids were mostly slurring nonsense from the backseat.

When suddenly Zach mumbles that he needs an engineering degree– and can he “get one those from NC State”?

Yeah, kiddo. NC State has a few engineering programs.

I woke early and did 40 minutes of kickboxing this morning. I deserved this time.

Biggest of the Small People at school; smallest of the Small People taking a nap.

Then… the SCREAM. Not the fakey one, or the bored one, but the OhMyGodHeElectrocutedHimself version.

I run– down the hall, through the door. Mom-eyes immediately assessing the scene for blood and or window-sneaking ninjas. See one lonely leg between the headboard slats.

Hunh. So not asleep, just very, very quiet.

Carefully extracting the leg, I crawl into the bottom bunk for a cuddle.

“Sweetie, did you hurt your leg,” voice full of affected mom-sympathy. I started to lose real sympathy after the fourth leg-through-headboard extraction.

“Nooooooo” he sobs, “my eyeeeeeeeee. I canNOT SEE in my eye.”

Note to self: Spend more time explaining the eyeball.

Okay, true concern, “what happened to your eye.”

Y’all.

“I poked MYSELF in the EYE.” Lifts one shaking hand to my face, “this finger did it. It’s a bad finger.”

“MY EYE. I CANNOT SEE”

Okay, now this kid?

Three years ago, when he looked like this?

Totally scratched my cornea, so I felt honest sympathy. The performance quality, however, cannot be denied.

His hand, according to him, is in time out until further notice.

Parenting. Spending more time exploring Life’s Really Important Questions, such as “What’s That Smell” and “What Made This Sticky Spot”

JB leans in and sniffs, categorizes it as Not-Poo, and prepares for clean up.

Interjecting, I take a sniff with my never-recovered-from-pregnancy-sensitive-nose. Smells petroleum-y, like floor wax.

I touch; it’s both sticky and slimy-greasy.

As both JB and I stare, Elliot enters stage left: “mommy, do you remember when you ate nonie’s necklace?”

I Head-whip, with wide eyes and a shrill voice: “What did you just say?”

Perhaps a brief history? In 1980, two people parented what would now be considered a spirited Small Person (me) at a military base in Weisbaden, Germany. At the time, they also happened to be packing up our quarters (apartment) to move back to the US. As the story goes, my Mom asked me throw an old necklace in the trash and instead I stashed it in my Monchhichi tree house. Later I ate some part of the necklace, which would be a non-event, except that the beads were made from castor beans, aka ricin.

Coincidentally, I know firsthand what it tastes/feels like to have the stomach pumped. It’s always nice when a moment with your child leads you to reminisce about your own childhood, right?

In the end, the final story is that Elliot wanted to clean up some snot (on the floor? how? nevermind) and got the cleaner from the kitchen.

We store the cleaner well out of reach–for this very reason. I remained suspicious, and asked him to show me.

Which he did.

Notice I annotated a picture rather than capturing him in the moment. Mostly because capturing it would be suggesting approval. Oh, and because I was standing there completely dumbfounded.

He’s determined, I’ll give him that.

Now the petroleum-y smell has reason. The produce wash exists to remove that waxy coating from fruits and vegetables.

And hardwood floors.

And… 3 hours later, we got to see Airforce One take off– totally cool. Because I’m a dork.

Most of this adventure from Elliot’s POV? Perhaps not as exhilarating, though he met bunches of new friends to play with, so all was not lost.

A pictorial representation of a 3 year old’s first Air Force One sighting
Why does Mom keep laughing and mumbling about “seeing the Force through the trees”.

Is there something Starwars going on over there? Nope, just some blue plane.

Now, that guy has a big camera. Let’s make faces at him.

I believe someone told me not to climb this…

I hate the wind. I hate the cold. I hate planes. Why won’t she take me home? Are there snacks in this giant suitcase thing? Dammit, not even a crumb. Perhaps it can double as a blanket? Since I have negative 25% body fat. UNLIKE THE WOMAN WITH THE CAR KEYS UP THERE.

Ahhhh… a windbreak over here in General Aviation. And a GIANT plane. Why exactly where we on the other side, freezing our arses off?

An ADHD 35 year old’s take on seeing Airforce one for the first time.

Oh cool, a tail fin
Refrain from inserting a hundred photos taken of randomness; because I could, and because I was bored.

Hello Mr. Not-Fancy Pants Photographer with a Press Pass. I’m taakkiinnnggg your piccctttuuurreee.

Wait. Scooter Man with Guitar? HAS ANYONE CHECKED TO MAKE SURE THAT’S NOT A SAWED OFF SHOTGUN? Because who rides a scooter to the airport?

A bunch of cars
See those teeny-tiny lights over the building? That would be the presidential motorcade. Which JB saw in traffic on his way to pick up Z from preschool. 30 feet away. Did he take a picture with his smart phone? Nnooooo….. *sob*

Finally, I see the end of my own boredom, when what do I hear from down below? From a tiny voice that is now wrapped in his coat, and my jacket, and using my purse as a blanket?

Mommy, I really have to pee

Y’all. I looked at him and thought– just for a second–

how bad would it be to let him just wet his pants?

Then I shook off asshole-mom– because what mom would do that?– and took the child to the bathroom.

And still made it out in time to see Air Force One taxi down the runway.

I can’t help it– every time I see one of them I start singing “here come the men in black”.

Then a little field trip over to General Aviation, because the motorcade vehicles roll separate plane, y’all. Of course, I kept calling this a C-130, which it’s not. Thank google for the correction– U.S. Air Force C-17 Globemaster III .

It’s like watching a tiny fish swim past an orca.

I’m not sure how this random family got a tour of the plane, but having your picture taken by the pilot of this massive beast kicks ass!

This plane has nothing to do with anything, but I love how the picture turned out, so here ya go.

Since we read a lot (and I mean A LOT) of Dr. Suess, I got all poem-y again.

A sign? Look–a sign!
To all of you, from all of mine.

Learn to accept and live with your fellow (wo)man.
May 8th: VOTE AGAINST THE MARRIAGE BAN!

Of course, all that wouldn’t fit. Heck, even the modified version barely fit. And look– I discovered yet another non-talent to add to my list: sign making. Dude. I even had a stencil. Sad.

But then–huzzah– I found out they got more signs. Here’s to hoping I can get my hands on one tonight. Otherwise, I’ll be sporting this in the yard.