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lostnfound

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Member since: Sat Sep 6, 2003, 04:28 AM
Number of posts: 13,162

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I did not mind all the sacrifices but stealing my joy as a mother is beyond cruel

I will be deleting this thread, because the topic is meant to be a howl from the wind in the middle of the night, and because communication itself must also be sacrificed.

Giving up alcohol for nine months so that your little brain would not be harmed was a piece a cake.
Carrying you around on my back for most of three years, all around town, was exhausting — a lot of fun. Reading to you for hours every night until you were eight or nine years old was a joy, even the entire Series of Unfortunate Events which you insisted on having me read to you when you were five, which we both loved.

Many people encourage parents when the kids are young. “Oh, that’s so good for him!” you hear. The reading, the games, the walks. Surely you are doing the right things. You listen to the teachers, you read the parenting books. You scale back your career — “I could have had a bigger career, but what matters to me more is the kid.”

Precious things got sacrificed too. I gave up a lot of time with my beloved sister, because she lived in another state, and you had school and activities and there was never enough time. I gave up a book club that was comprised of a few good friends. I put up with thousands of changes that are necessary to keep peace in the family, whether or not I fully believed they were the right thing to do. Moms and dads sacrifice a lot to keep peace in the family. Moms and dads don’t always agree on the right way to do stuff, so you compromise and sacrifice and the only guiding light that helps you solve disagreements is “what’s best for the kid.”

In middle school, I stayed up late many nights trying to help you with homework and occasionally almost all night helping you with a project. Helping you with the science fair. And in one of those irrational slaps in the face that you get from a certain kind of boy, I sacrificed the science fair itself, which I had so much wanted to go to because I knew it was the only such memory i would ever have, watching you present at the science fair, because you’re my only child, and I loved science fairs when I was growing up. So that would have been such a special memory for me. But you really really didn’t want me to come in so I sat in the car and waited, and cried. You came out eventually, and I hid my tears and put on a happy face, because I didn’t want to ruin your positive experience, but you were already angry when you arrived, because I was parked too close to the front, or some other unexpected complaint.

Now, I’m prepared for an early retirement in another place, where a peaceful house is waiting on the lake I can rest outside of this cold climate. Two extra years here, for your sake. I’m carrying a mortgage that’s more than I can handle so that you could go to a school that was supposed to be good for you.you didn’t end up staying there, but that’s another story.

But now, you’re on the cusp of adulthood, and you seem to want me to sacrifice my sanity, my self-respect, and worst of all, 17 years of my most meaningful memories and the simple dreams that any mother has. Your anger and hostility overwhelms me, your sarcasm frightens me, your demands infuriate me, your recklessness worries me, your threats and your coldness break my heart. In the last four months, minor frictions have exploded into major chasms and bewildering behavior.

Who can I talk to? If it were up to you I would hold it inside till I explode. I talk to my friend when you’re out of earshot, but no one comes to the rescue. I’m too old to be a damsel in distress, I guess. Rescues can’t be made, escapes are closed. I’m not strong enough to withstand your behaviors. I’m getting old, tired, forgetful, in pain. I tell a friend, “I feel like a gazelle in a small boat with a lion”. Sort of like Life of Pi. Am I a “loser” because I didn’t fight harder for a bigger career? You say so. And in every argument, when I push back, you push harder. I am a willow, not cut out for parenting. Not like this.

Everywhere I look, I see reminders of those sweet early years — the car commercial with the pregnant couple, the framed art from middle school on my wall, the young family playing outside. I ran across the books that said it all: A Series of Unfortunate Events. I scream at friends on the phone. My heart has.broken into 17 pieces, who can put them together again? Next weekend is “Mother’s Day”. It is a cruel joke, and it would be best if it passes without comment.

Schools as armed camps. Fing Chuck Todds picture painting..

Oh he is SO good at spinning conversations rightward. That’s the solution he’s talking about. The “solution is going to look like more guns, armed guards and metal detectors”? Oh, he will say that isn’t HIS opinion, he was just expressing the views of republicans that might want to actually do something. Parents aren’t going to want armed camps, he admits. But he’s shifting the ground. Now he’s asking “what’s realistic when it comes to this issue?”

1. “Schools as armed camps” is a FAILURE.
2. It does NOTHING to stop guns at concerts, soccer games, movie theatres.

“If we had a magical way to search social media...” another f’ing straw man, Chuck. COMPANIES DO BACKGROUND CHECKS THAT INCLUDE SOCIAL MEDIA ALL THE TIME. You can’t get a JOB without one. That doesn’t require MAGIC, Chuck. It requires the will to do it.

But we had an assault weapons ban from 1994 to 2004, which the Democrats gave us, until the Republicans took it away. That’s not MAGIC either.

But hey, don’t let the facts interfere with your agenda, which is to chronically paint the democrats as weak or ineffective or idealistic, and to paint Washington as a bipartisan gridlock caused by both parties.

One edit: his “I’m obsessed segment” afterward was somewhat better but I am tired of his constant false equivalence and his lack of fairness in recognizing the strengths of Democrats.

My family, Our family

In 15 and 20 years, I hope to have my brother visit me at a house on a lake, sit on my porch when we are old, play cribbage or cards, and remember our parents and growing up together in the 60s. I want my son to still have an uncle then, and my future grandkids to have a GREAT-uncle, one who can tell them about resourcefulness and self-sufficiency and working hard and being honest. He has many good traits.

If that happens, we will occasionally look back and remember last week, when his heart stopped twice in the same day, the second time while I sat beside him. That was the week that the nurses and doctors rescued him and tormented him and encouraged him and put an expensive little device in his chest, all paid for by Obamacare.

We don’t know why this crisis befell him. He eats healthy, exercises daily, and has never smoked. His heart got big and ineffective, or sparks flew where they shouldn’t, or he caught a virus, and in a span of just a few months he went from daily 5 mile walks and chopping down trees, to two horrible days on a ventilator.

This week, he is home — walking, talking, working on his computer— on his road to a full recovery. His focus is on getting better, not on paying a flood of unexpected and indecipherable medical bills. What might have cost $250;000 will instead total only $600. There was PLENTY of fear last week, but no extra layers of fear consisting of “how will this get paid for?” Or “how deep in debt will we go?”

Politics don’t enter into love for a family member facing a health crisis. We united in pulling for him, taking turns at his side. Our circumstances are different. One of us gladly pays a couple thousand dollars a year in extra Medicare taxes to support Obamacare; one of us pays none of that, but pays a lot for their own company-sponsored plan; and one of us benefits from Obamacare. We are children of the same parents, and it is a no-brainer that we look out for each other now. Among other reasons: the important and perhaps most meaningful last gift that I can give to my long-dead parents is to be there for their son or daughter when they cannot be. It is a privilege.

We will argue about politics on that porch in twenty years, and I will be grateful. A grand-nephew yet to be born might get taught the game of cribbage — and hear stories about my own father — by a great uncle, who will enrich that child’s life in subtle ways that will only be appreciated decades later. We never know where our later lives will lead.

We are all family. The doctors, the nurses, the researchers, the patients — not only now, but the ones that came before us — contributed to the evolution of life-saving technologies and to the bank of knowledge on which modern medicine depends, and in most cases they did it for the sake of humanity, not just for the sake of a paycheck. We share in that human legacy, regardless of who has since purchased the patents or cornered a market. We all need that human legacy.

Oh, to all of my brothers and sisters in the great extended human family, I hope your lives are treasured, long and healthy. I hope you all grasp that life and health are bigger than theoretical ideologies. We owe it to ourselves, to each other and to our long-dead ancestors to fight to defend the compassionate spaces in our public institutions, to not fail in preserving and nourishing our basic humanity.
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