deus ex mama
the four of us made our way through macy’s cosmetics area last night on our way to dinner at Ted’s. my third grade reader grrl, BC, looked at a bottle she passed.
mama, what’s better than buttocks?
WHAT? i replied, wondering where the hell that came from. (is it a trick question?)
that bottle. it says better than buttocks.
i took a look. and giggled. uh, no, honey. that would be better than botox.
reading is fundamental.
i often enjoy radicalmother’s posts, and this one has me inspired.
in a related vein, i once got into a horrifically-awful shoutfest in grad school. i took a feminist theory class. there were two men in the class, two of the most thoughtful and wonderful people i’ve ever known. two men i knew then to definitely be feminist. the prof asked whether men could truly be feminists. a chunk of the women in the room were screeching that men could not, in fact, ever be feminists because they could never experience oppression like women do.
i am a staunch feminist (though i do not play one on TV), but i had a very difficult time stomaching that idea. a) i found it divisive — a movement needs all the members it can get, imho; and b) men *can* get oppressed. generally, the oppression comes from other men; but due to racism, class-ism, and sexual preference, men can be oppressed. (ask some of the recently-emigrated guys from african or asian nations how they are treated here.) therefore, in my mind, they, too can be feminists.
the womyn in my class went on to tell me that i could not be a true feminist because i’m a heterosexual woman, and i can’t really know what it’s like to be a lesbian. well, that last bit is true — i don’t know what it’s like to be a lesbian. but i do know how it feels to be beaten up over my religion. and like lots of other women, i also have experienced my fair share of oppression. not being allowed to join the little league because girls did not do that back in my day. having the identical qualifications as BS and having to take a typing test when he did not for a job. losing a promotion because i looked so tired when i brought my six-week-old to visit at work so we didn’t think you’d come back from maternity leave. i can keep going, but i don’t want everyone feeling sorry for me. i don’t.
i guess where i’m rambling is this: there are so, so many doofuses (doofi?) out there who will denegrate what they fear. there are men out there who can and want to participate in a real dialogue about sexism. there are women who want to refine the definition of feminism to the enth degree until it’s a very limited club. it’s tough sailing when you’re negotiating these waters with your kids in the boat. so i just try to teach my kids the golden rule: do unto others as you’d have them do to unto you. i hope that somehow translates into just doing what’s right. in the end, that, to me, is what being a feminist is all about: treating women and men, boys and girls, fairly in all arenas of life.
i just wish i could call it humanism.
yesterday was not my day to be a consumer.
first, there was target. my beloved target (motto: walk in here for one item. walk out with $50 worth of merchandise.) the store where there’s probably an aisle with my name on it. someone somewhere heard BC’s pleas to make the C9 running pants and shirts for girls as well as for boys. (she’s told me that she often wears the same outfits as three boys in her class.) they are great buys (compared to underarmor) and especially terrific when girlfriend engages in sports. two days ago, when jools was home with me, we had to run an errand at target (that would be before we went out to the park in the 20+ degree freezing weather and played) and i noticed that there were spring versions of the C9 shirts and pants in the girls department. in colors like pink and purple, even — which, for BC, is a major coup since she really hates trotting around in black and grey (at least one shirt is red). so i guessed at her size and picked up a few things.
only, in the words of junie b, too bad for me. i picked the wrong size. i had to make a return. when i looked at my receipt, though, that ms. target had overcharged me one extra pair of running pants. usually, i check my receipts like mrs. pathmark (mrs. pathmark is what my dad calls any grocery checkout person who checks every single item to make sure every coupon has a corresponding item. clearly, this term predates computerized checkouts.) but with jools in tow, i didn’t even get a chance to look at the receipt. i was lucky i found my keys.
so back i went to make my return. i told the lady that additionally, i was overcharged for an extra pair of pants which i did not buy. she proceeded to call security. (note to self: you really ought to start wearing makeup. you scare people on most days without it.) the burly security woman looked me over, then went into some place some where. i don’t know whether there are tapes of every single transaction made or whether they just want to see whether you’re pissed enough to wait 15-20 minutes to get your money back. but wait i did; and after 20 minutes of wasted time, the burly lady came out, pronounced me honest, and they gave me my money back.
on to sears, where a return went so much better. i never shop at sears (i was returning a lands end item); i think i might have to reconsider.
then, on to shoppers food hellhouse house of babel warehouse. i hate SFW, but BS received some giftcards there from the credit card company as a reward, so off i went to do marketing. other than the fact that the stench of their meat department makes me want to hurl, the place isn’t so bad. in fact, their international food offerings rock, reflecting the incredibly diverse population that hits this store. one pleasant moment was noticing that the middle eastern foods sit peacefully beside the kosher foods. somewhere, someone is smiling. (besides me, i mean.)
but at checkout time, i showed the gift cards to the cashier. how much they for? she asked. the cards don’t have a denomination on them. sorry, i don’t know, i replied. that’s great. just greeeeeaaaat, she replied, passive-aggressive smile gleaming. hello and excuse me, but don’t you use computers that let you know precisely what people have? all the other local stores do. or should i alert stockholders that you’re still in the dark ages of mrs. pathmark? i had to run those things through several times before peace reigneth.
ugh. home at last with just an hour to spare before i had to pick up BC (because wednesday is half-day elementary school day throughout the county. i love having extra time with my girl, but there’s something weird about the kids having a half-day every single blessed week.) i get home to a voicemail from my beloved pal, the nurse whom i adore, the one who gives me my IVIG every four weeks. please call, she says. i need your help.
the poor thing spent the entire morning trying to get the pharmacy to release my gammagard, which i was supposed to have today. it had been authorized by health insurance last week, but somehow, the people who actually release the IVIG hadn’t gotten the news. and hours of trying, in between actually helping patients, was not working. could i help?
so i started to work the phones. the pharma told me they needed prior authorization. Blue Cross told me that i’ve been authorized since last week and that the pharma needs to call, just as they always do. i called the pharma back; the woman told me that she had to ask a certain someone a question and that she was not there at the moment; could she call me back? AAAAAARGH. all she needed to do was call BC/BS and they’d tell her the news. but noooo. by about 3 p.m., you really wanted to keep me away from sharp objects. fun things i had planned to do with BC were shelved as i waited for the phone call. (we ended up making funky rice krispie treats, so all was not lost. but still.)
by 4:30, my favorite nurse told me that she was about to call a VP at the pharma. she called back a few minutes later. my meds would arrive Thursday (today) at noon. so let’s move the appt to friday.
ironically, the woman from the pharma company called about a half hour after my favorite nurse (who reads this blog, incidentally — so hi!!! and thank you!!!) and told me that she had been working on this all afternoon. call your doctor’s office in an hour and see whether there’s any progress. my doctor’s office closed ten minutes ago, i replied. but by that point, i was past caring. i clearly wasn’t getting the gammaguard on thursday.
some days, you shoulda stood in bed.
this one’s for you, kids. this one and this one, too.
no matter how you try, there will be days when you cannot keep the permanently-brave mommy facade up. maybe your day has just been a series of idiotic, unbelievable events that continue to pile-up in that way that some days do, like a never-ending car crash. or maybe you’re just not feeling well — you’re exhausted in a way that only other people who have a condition on top of parenthood can really understand. maybe you’re just tired of dealing with a never-ending panoply of wankers.
today was a combo of all three. and then some.
by the time the afternoon rolled around, i knew i needed to get some sleep or i would burst into a flood of tears. i picked up BC from school, told her to do her homework, and then, if she felt like it, she could curl up with me in my bed and we could watch something together. she dutifully did her work, consulting me on a few word patterns, and then we settled in to finish the 1949 version of little women (you know, the movie i had originally intended for us to watch before BC decided to pick jesus camp instead? — oh, and by the way — we’re also working on a Nova about intelligent design. that’s a laff riot, too.)
not even june allyson’s terminal perkiness or elizabeth taylor’s frightful look as a blonde could keep me awake. i dozed off until the very end of the movie. i knew the story, though, and i wasn’t sure how madame would take it when one of the characters (SPOILER ALERT!) kicks the bucket. but she was fine.
later in the evening, the sadness hit. sad. sad. sad. buzz, i said, thanks so much for hanging with me. i’m sorry, but sometimes, i suck as a mom.
oh mama, she replied, you don’t suck. you’re the best mom in the whole world!
and jools, sitting nearby, chimed in, you’re the best mama because you like to play with us! that child may not listen when i address him sometimes, but i’m always amazed at the strategic moments when his ears are open.
somehow, the clouds of the day lifted. it was an ordinary evening: BC disliking my culinary endeavor, jools wanting me to give him a bath instead of BS, stories a go-go, and then nighttime chats before bed. but there’s something so wonderful about the ordinariness of the evening, especially with little people who seem to reach me when no one else can.
before i get to today’s topic: because this week has been a bit crazy, it’s time to slow down and watch otters holding hands. (awww. you’re the shmoopie!)
sorry. i saw one too many blogs this week where the bloggers allow their pets to post. i lovelovelove animals like the next person, but seriously? i nearly hurled each time.
so, now that we’ve all chilled to nature’s calming, Hallmarkian, and emetic ways…
BC is trying to create a new style craze (how new it is i ponder, but anyway) by wearing a different, unmatched sock on each foot. it’s a royal pain in the patoot come laundry day (when i have to guess whether i need to look for a pair or just one-of-a-kind), but if this is the worst fashion rebellion we’re working on at the moment, i’m okay with that. so far, none of her little 3rd grade buddies has made fun of her for it, so i guess it will continue for the foreseeable future.
i’m waiting for the next round of but so-and-so’s mother lets her wear makeup/belly-baring-shirts/etc.
i’m a mean mom (remember?), so i don’t really care what other moms are doing. and it’s not like i make her walk around with her entire body covered. but i just don’t think she’s ready to send a more grownup message to the world yet, with all that entails.
so i can absolutely live with the mismatched socks. hell, she can have mine, if she wants.
now that i’ve firmly entrenched myself as a mean and instransigent mom, i may as well go all the way with it. in short: what the hell is up with picky eaters? specifically: whatever happened to people being guests and not giving a giant list of what they eat versus what they don’t eat?
let me backtrack here for a sec. BC can be miss picky-picky when it comes to food. in short, the list of foods she likes is a lot shorter than the list of food that she does like. she can be a royal pain the patoot come dinnertime when she refuses what’s on her plate. and there was a time when i lived out my dream as a short-order cook, making one meal for us and another for our lady of macaroni and cheese. but once child #2 came along, all bets were off. i had no time, no inclination, and no interest in making a third meal (considering the baby needed his own substances, something which i obviously couldn’t begrudge him, considering he was a baby and all.)
so the new rule went into effect. i try to make at least one part of the meal that i know missus will eat. the rest, though, might be something she likes, and then again, it might be something she loathes. if she doesn’t like it, well, to borrow from john belushi — she goes hungry. tuesday night is kid night, aka chicken nugget and macaroni and cheese night. but otherwise, it’s chef’s choice. and, 6 out of 7 nights (at least) je suis le chef.
ego crustulum , proinde ego sum. (i cook, therefore i am.)
(have i mentioned before that i’m a terrible cook?)
well, i get an A for effort in terms of trying to introduce my kids to different foods, foods that usually involve veggies, chicken or vegetarian protein sources, and fruit. and G-d bless jools — when BC isn’t around, he usually is quite complimentary… like last night, when i cooked a mild tandoori chicken. M I L D. like i actually sought out the recipe based on reviews that said things like lacks spice and real tandoori fans should look elsewhere. jools and BS liked it. and i made jasmine rice and peas to go with it, knowing BC would at least eat those things.
and she hated the chicken.
BUT, i digress. per usual.
i am trying desperately to train her so that when she is a guest at other people’s homes, she tries her best. she doesn’t get rude. she’ll note that she can’t eat pork or meat with cheese, but beyond that, she gives it a try. if she doesn’t like the food, she should just leave it and deal with the consequences of being hungry until she comes home and can fix herself a peanut butter sandwich or eat a cheesestick. (and hey, if she’s a guest at anyone’s house and she is a PITA about the food, i want to know about it so that madame and i can have a friendly little chat about being a guest.)
so i continuously get amazed when young playdates visit and tell me what is acceptable and what is not acceptable in my pantry. i always ask about food allergies, of course, as i don’t want anyone getting sick. i am willing to give whatever i have. but i have what i have. i still remember when i was a teen and a friend of mine from out of town stayed over my house. (a BOY. not my BOYfriend. actually, i think he was my aforementioned friend wah’s boyfriend at the time. but i digress. again.) i still remember him walking up to my mom and asking her whether she had a certain brand of frozen pizza. the look of shock burnt onto my mom’s face was priceless.
i think we were so shocked simply because everyone else who visited was so polite about food. as i was, of course. i knew that if my mom heard that i was being rude to my host, we, too, would have a friendly chat. so it’s a shock to me when people of a certain age tell me that my food is unacceptable. like i can do anything about it at that time? one word, one word i share with a sympathetic smile.
sorry.
i promised a rant on homeschooling, and i must make good on that promise, though i’ll try my best to be calm. i expect a giant learning experience of children, organized by their ardent moms, at my door, screaming that homeschooling is the best thing since sliced bread. (just let me know in advance so that i bake enough brownies for the kids.)
on the one side, i must show my admiration for those parents who want to take on the monumental task of educating their children to the current state and local education standards. i don’t believe for a second i could undertake such a mission. i don’t believe i possess the patience. i don’t believe i possess the pedagogical skills. and while i am one smart chick with the IQ test scores to prove it, i don’t believe i will be doing my kids a favor when they need to learn higher order math skills (READ: anything beyond algebra) or other topics where i am currently not up to snuff. and no one, and i mean NO ONE, will be dissecting any animals in my kitchen. (that one’s for YOU, hellboy, who’d probably voluntarily do that deed right now at age 4.)
parents who want to homeschool their children apparently have these reasons for homeschooling, according to the national home education research institute:
· teach a particular set of values, beliefs, and worldview,
· accomplish more academically than in schools,
· customize or individualize the curriculum and learning environment for each child,
· use pedagogical approaches other than those typical in institutional schools,
· enhance family relationships between children and parents and among siblings,
· provide guided and reasoned social interactions with youthful peers and adults, and
· provide a safer environment for children and youth, because of physical violence, drugs and alcohol, psychological abuse, and improper and unhealthy sexuality.
i suppose i could understand wanting to pull my kids from the public schools if i lived in a terrible place with terrible schools. i would certainly pull my kids if i thought they were going to get killed during the school day. (of course, then i’d get the hell out of the area, if it took the last cent i had.) but sometimes, when i am at local playgrounds with jools on his home day, i marvel at the women and their tribes of homeschooled children playing at the playground. our school district is one of the finest in the nation, and yet these people, who CHOOSE to live here, pull their kids out of the public school. it’s mystifying.
there’s something very isolationist and elitist about homeschooling, as if parents fear the very tainting of their children through their interaction with other children, the media, or, most horrifyingly, with alternative ideas. it’s as if homeschooling parents are building a giant bubble for their children, and only they know everything in the world that’s best for their kids. parents should make decisions for their children when they’re young, but as they get older, one of the most important skills i think kids need to learn is how to make decisions — smart ones — on their own. i wonder how willing homeschooling parents are to give up control.
and homeschooling is all about control. control of ideas and who delivers them. control over who gets to interact with the children. control of the environment. in short, i think some of these people had some toilet training issues in their past and they are taking them out on their kids.
why would anyone want to be with anyone 24/7? if your mom (or dad!) is your teacher, you, the kid, have no escape. from school. from pressure. from HER. i get to be the bad cop enough when it comes to discipline. i don’t want my kids to see me and think, oh G-d, i didn’t do my homework/my project/my whatever. i’m so busted. kids need a break from school. parents need a break from kids. when home is school and school is home, there is no division.
do the parents make conscious and deliberate attempts to ensure their kids meet other kids from different racial, religious, ethnic, and socioeconomic backgrounds? (i can see it now: let’s meet the JEWISH kids today on our field trip, children! and next week, we go visit the GHETTO!) i suspect not. probably only other kids from their church, kids who share their values and world views, need apply. (oh, except for those days when they do some church-sponsored community project. oh, how weird if your only interaction with other ethnicities is through some service project. then you get to assume that “all of them” are like that. so wrong, so dead wrong.)
what i want to know is what happens when these kids go to college and subsequently enter the real world. i am not impressed by the dearth of research on this topic (and i am a little suspect of the national home education research group, anyway). do the kids have to stay on the narrow, little path their moms and dads have made for them in order to lead a decent life? what happens when they don’t understand any of the cultural references of their peers? are they ostracized? how do they tolerate lines of inquiry that don’t have a ready answer? (do they build an answer with G-d in it instead?) do they expect the world to be a neat and tidy place, just like their home school, with all of the answers provided?
i am the child of a teacher, a niece 0f a teacher, a relative and friend of teachers galore. i’ve been a student of education policy. my bias is obvious here. i believe firmly that there is a certain level of pedagogical training, a certain level of knowledge necessary, to truly lift all boats for all children. i’m not naive enough to think that our public schools are churning out 100% success stories, 100% of the time. please.
but i like to think that my kids are getting taught by people who usually have their best interests at heart. (obviously, not always or else we would have avoided last year’s trauma.) and i intervene when things go seriously awry. that’s my job as a parent — i am my child’s advocate.
and i like to think that what they learn by going to public school — with children who may not be just like them, who may eat different foods and celebrate different days and who may have more money or less money than we have — is how to live in a starter microcosm of our big and diverse world. one lesson at a time. i can’t give them that if i keep them in my cozy, sheltered home. and i need them to learn how to cope with situations, how to become increasingly responsible for their own learning and lives, and to discover that sometimes, life is incredibly ambiguous.
and that’s ok.
i don’t want my children to be dependent on me for decisions and answers. i don’t want them to necessarily be dependent on assuming that G-d has all the answers or even IS the answer. i probably will never be able to teach them much beyond how to treat people and how to bake a mean brownie.
but i damn well know how to guide them to the places and the experiences which will help them grow. and guide them i will. toward being independent, forthright, unsheltered and open-minded citizens of the world.
oh, no. don’t go down to doledrum.
yesterday, i was in a foul, foul mood. i was getting a nose and ear infection. while in conversation with BS, i had a random nosebleed, which made me burst into tears (i don’t really have nosebleeds, and the last time i had a big ol’ burster was when my platelets were in the toilet. the proverbial damn broke, and there was nothing to stop the bleeding. it was scary.) my platelets can’t possibly be in the toilet, though, as i got some terrific numbers back last week on them. time for that deep breath…
anyhow, the icing on the cake: i dealt with an hysterical son who didn’t want to go to sunday school and who felt like i wasn’t listening to him even though i told him countless times i was (repeating his words, even), but that the answer was still the same. you try to teach your children to use their words, and they do. but then, there’s lesson #2 — sometimes, you use your words, but it doesn’t mean you will get the desired result.
believe me, i hated hebrew school. hatedhatedHATED it. the best part was running races in the front before class and hiding out in the toilets. which i did. all through third grade. cos the teacher and her long, pointy, chewed-on nails terrified me. but after being bat mitzvah’d, i felt like i had accomplished something. i had learned something. i want that for my kids. i don’t care if the very next day after the bat/bar mitzvah, BC decides to become a hare krishna and jools decides to become a satan worshiper. halleluyah to both of them. but i just want to share a little of their culture with them. after all, you can’t reject it if you ain’t got it in the first place, right?
jools ended up having a wonderful time at hebrew school. he made me a cardboard tree in honor of tu bishvat and planted a little parsley seedling (the dirt kind of shifted upside down on the car ride home, so we’ll see whether there’s any parsley for the seder.) he told me that trees give us air. maybe i need to stand closer to a tree and breathe in, as it drives me insane that this child has the short-term memory of dory from finding nemo. he always has a great time, but then he forgets and carries on for the next time. and i just don’t know how to get him to remember.
ah well. the day improved. i raced with jools and played in the backyard with both kids. BC asked if we could finally make the pinecone feeder treats for the birds, the project i’ve been stalling on. see, normally, i cringe thinking about the mess this project (peanut butter and bird seeds, anyone?) would make. but i thought, aw hell. let the kid take the lead. you’re not doing a very good job with your day, so maybe this will improve things. and it did, with us covered in peanut buttery-seedy goodness. oh well. have sink and broom; will travel.
then, after we hung the pinecones in the tree, i took a deep breath again and let jools out on the street under BC’s watchful gaze. i have a hard time letting the kids out without supervising them. (it’s so different from when i was a kid and i would just leave the house and roam the neighborhood without anyone worrying i would end up in a bad place.) the two were going to see whether anyone wanted to come out and ride scooters on our dead-end street. after ten minutes of angst, i looked outside to see 6 kids, two parents, and a dog. in short, my kids started a little impromptu neighborhood scooter party. which i joined. (BC even was permitted to walk said dog. she shoots, she scores!)
my kids nearly send me down the proverbial rabbit hole sometimes, but they always know how to find me there and pull me out.
i just have to open my mind and let them.
BC and i are talking just before bedtime as we always do. usually, she demands that i tell her a story from my life, or a story from someone in my life’s life. i’m full of stories (among other things, an impolite but probably accurate person might say), so after some prompting, i conjure up a tale.
but last night, after imagining what BS and i looked like on our wedding day, it is BC who launches into a mini reverie.
mama, i know what daddy should dress up like for halloween next year!
what, i reply.
daddy should dress up like a millionaire.
intrigued, i pursued. and how, darling, do millionaires dress?
well, daddy could wear a white suit, with a white top hat, and a golden sash around it. his suit would have gold buttons on it.
is that how millionaires dress, honey?
yes, she replied.
do millionaires ever dress like daddy and me? i ask.
no. a very definitive no from our lady of macaroni and cheese.
oh well. there’s no hope for us, i guess.
wait til i tell BS he needs an october costume that’ll make him look like a cross between the monopoly man and a pimp.
recently, i TIVO’d jesus camp, an indie movie documentary that lost out in the land of oscars to an inconvenient truth. i thought it would be something BS and i would watch at some point; however, when BC got hold of the TIVO and found it, she asked what it was about (evangelical kids going to evangelical summer camp! wheee!) and whether she could watch it. i told her that the only way she’d watch this was if i watched along with her, and voila! we watched this amazing documentary. (not the mother-daughter experience i was envisioning — little women is also on the TIVO — but no matter.)
hey — you out there — you citizen who reveres the separation of church and state. the charismatic christians in this movie will make you bark at the moon. you first meet some of the children at a children’s christian conference in missouri. one child passes out pamphlets while at a bowling alley (after praying to jesus to help her bowl well. no, i am not making this up.) one child wants to dance to christian heavy metal — she’ll dance not for the flesh, but for jesus. (the subject: go-go boots. the question: what would jesus do?::snerk::) and another child wants to grow up and be a preacher. you see kids crying, speaking in tongues, squirming uncomfortably. i was especially shocked to see parents in there, just standing by, letting their children undergo uncomfortable and upsetting experiences with no guidance and little support. i felt like i was watching parents throwing young christians to the lions.
most of the kids, by the way are — SURPRISE! — homeschooled. G-d forbid they actually have to interact with people who believe in things different from the beliefs touted by their church.
[note to self: the day will come when i will rant a HUGE, SUPERCOLLOSAL RANT about homeschooling. but not today.]
anyway, you end up at camp in ND, at a megachurch in colorado springs (which looks more like a concert venue — with diamondvision), and driving around scenic missouri with the camp organizer, pentacostal minister becky fischer. oh, and lest we forget washington, DC, where the children have tape on their mouths with the word LIFE scrawled across it as they pray outside the supreme court. (they wanted to make sure judge alito replaced sandra day o’connor. which, unfortunately, he did. today, a justice. tomorrow, abortion rights.) for me, the film is punctuated with occasional bouts of sanity from radio host mike papantonio, who even duels with fischer on the air over how children should be learning, not indoctrinated, at young ages.
anyway, i tried reallyreallyreally hard to keep myself quiet and available to BC should she have questions. we ended up talking about abortions, we ended up talking about heaven and hell, we talked about creationism. i carefully pointed out that this is a specific group of christians, that not all christians are like this. i did my duty for Dog and Country. (you’re welcome.)
but girlfriend couldn’t help but be creeped out by it all. mama, she pointed out, these people are terrorizing the kids! they’re making them scared and they’re making them cry! why are they doing that to kids?
because, i replied, it’s kind of like brainwashing. you have to break people down and then build them up again — but this time, with your ideas getting planted in their brains. they want them to not question the ideas but to just believe them. and then, make everyone else believe them, too.
we were both horrified. it’s one thing for parents to teach kids about their religion, to share their core beliefs. i support that 100 percent. it’s another thing to train them to be soldiers for G-d. these kids are not learning about tolerance. i’m not christian, but i always thought jesus was a pretty tolerant kind of guy — he hung with people like mary magdalene, right? i wonder how many of these people would go within ten feet of her now?
and when they started praying for george w bush… and when they started to smash mugs, which represented government, with hammers — well, my bullshit detector went off. i could barely stand this. hello, division of family and youth services? anyone out there? anyone home?
you don’t have to be a grownup to realize just how effing perverse this all is.