Desi and I saw Brave last night...which was awesome.

While the movie can work for boys or girls, I have a feeling the moms of girls will particularly enjoy it. This is no typical, fluffy, frothy Disney Princess. Yes, there is adventure, magic, and tucked in between it all, a genuine message about love...and listening to those we care about.

I could say I have been fortunate...unlike the red headed Heroine, and her mother, Desi and I have never had a screaming row. We've never stomped off, neering to chill out, but it didn't stop me from tearing up a time or two...or reaching for her hand during the movie.

You see...my daughter is Brave.

She has overcome a variety of obstacles in her young life---none that were her own creation. Life has tossed some wicked curve balls at Ms. Desi...and she has never stopped trying, never failed to meet each one, head on. Sometimes, after I read a particularly vapid post over at Datingish, or something like that, I actually leave my puter, and go HUG her. Girls who obsess about boob size, eyebrows, or what does it mean when he...make us both giggle. REALLY? They are the same age as Desi...and the big conflicts in HER life are:

1. How to make enough time between classes to find time to work on her novel.

2. How to pay for her next year in college.

That's about it.

She had to take her first student loans this year...and that's a concern...but it sure as hell isn't EYEBROWS.

It makes me proud, and happy...that she is a sweet, serious, funny---and SO creative. She doesn't get hung up on trifles...she focuses on the stuff that will serve her...and she has a kick ass GPA in the middle of her Junior year...3.4, thank you very much.

Oh yeah...and for whatever reason, she loves her mom.

That blows my mind away daily. It's not "required"...it is absolutely optional...and it is one of the great joys of my life.

I have never gotten along with my own mother...she has issues that go back to her own childhood that no one will ever cure.  She wanted me to be ANYTHING...ANYONE but who I was, and made it clear that anything less was a disappointment. She dreamed of a blue eyed little blonde Jon Bonet she could dress up, and show off...and she got me and my sister...anything BUT that. The fights we had were awful...and never had a happy resolution. And no, she never did accept the cruel blow fate had dealt her with her youngest daughter. So 21 years ago, I did not have any great expectations of motherhood.  I knew I wanted a child (and THAT was a new thought, first occurring in my late 20's.) and I knew I had absolutely NO IDEA how to be a mom...because mine was ghastly at it.

I still remember the last day at the hospital(We were there for five days) when I was dressing to leave. The nurse brought Desi to me...and I had a moment of horrified panic/realization. She was SO tiny. And I was a clumsy oaf. I BROKE stuff all the time...china, crystal...how the hell was I NOT going to break a baby?

The nurse saw my tears...but she assumed I was happy.

I was more scared than I had ever been in my life.

I wish I could tell you I fell in love with her at first sight...and I SHOULD have. She was Gerber Baby gorgeous, and we had planned the pregnancy with the strategic precision of the Omaha Beach Invasion. I was supposed to be blissful...my baby was here...and healthy, and what the HELL was wrong with me?

I'm not sure when i finally felt right...and ok.

People came to see us...my mother and my sister.  They told me the story about how they "broke" me of crying when I was 18 months old, by leaving me in the crib to "cry it out". My sister mentioned that there had been a weird noise, and I REALLY started shrieking...how hard it had been to wait another hour before checking on me...only to find me in a heap on the floor...with a broken collar bone. Then my mother explained that I really shouldn't pick Desi up for "every little whimper". My daughter was less than two weeks old at the time.

As I sat there with my daughter, I decided that since I really didn't know what the hell I was doing, I would go with my gut. My gut said a two week old wasn't trying to manipulate me...she honest to god needed her mom. She couldn't hold her head up yet. And really, she didn't cry much.  So I sat in the dark, holding my child...trying to find the courage to be the parent she needed. Breastfeeding had not worked...and did I ever try! but Desi was 5 weeks premature...and couldn't latch on. The pumping might have worked, had she been full term...but the paltry few tablespoons of milk my breasts made would not have nursed a kitten for a day...much less a new born.

The doctor told me at six weeks to just let it go...and I felt my first sense of failure as a mother. Breast feeding was NATURAL dammit...and mine didn't work.  It pissed me off...but the next day my milk was gone...and my daughter took to her bottle fine, and fell asleep in my arms for the first time. (And the breast is best people can KISS MY ASS...I didn't have enough milk...end of story. God judge someone who cares about your opinion.) Not long after, she started sleeping through the night...12 hours. (Yeah...I know..most moms HATE me when they hear that. Comfort yourselves with the knowledge that her night sleeping came with a price...NO NAPS. Ever. So while you guys were catching z's in the afternoon, or actually had free time to do chores, I had a baby on my hip for the daylight hours.)

And that's where we began, Desi and I. I was TERRIBLE at babbling...so I just talked to her. At first, she just watched me with those amazing green gray eyes...I would prop her in her sitting basket on the kitchen counter while I did dishes. I would talk...and she would listen. At some point, she started to reply...baby style.  It felt normal. One day, I was talking to her in the market, and a woman looked at me like I was nuts.

"She doesn't understand you...you know that, RIGHT?"

My reply?

"AH...but one day, she will!"

So on Saturday, the child who gave me the greatest adventure of my life, and my most profound challenges turns 21.

She is not to blame for the crazy stuff. So I had to fight doctors when she was 10...and a school district when she was 11. So I had no idea what I was doing...after a decade, I was comfortable with the unknown.  I fought for her, because no one else could have...and I had to fight the well meaning family and friends---who thought I was crazy for not letting the "professionals" do it for me. It wasn't pride...and it wasn't stubborn. Had any one of those teachers seemed like they KNEW who my daughter was, had a single one looked at her as other than a "problem they needed to fix", I would have been glad to stand down. But they didn't. And I couldn't.

I keep looking at her this week...so grownup...and smart...and wonderful. And I keep getting misty dammit, which is so not me.

But I am now the keeper of the great secret, between mothers and daughters. Accept who they are...and who they want to be from that first day...and you'll be fine. (Yes, I used to whisper to her sleeping ears "You want to be a plumber...or an electrician!" But that didn't work.) I am humbled, and delighted by the person my daughter has grown into.  I can't get over her will, her ways...she is already my hero. And yes, we love each other...just the way we are. Not perfect...oh GOD no...but she was meant to be my child...and I, for whatever great fortune, was meant to be her mom.

Happy birthday, Desiree Angelique...from your most fortunate mom.

http://news.yahoo.com/blogs/sideshow/mom-cut-ponytail-judge-daughter-utah-151037132.html

Observe...the 13 year old found it amusing to cut hair from a three year old child she did not know.

The judge said she could have a reduced sentence...IF her mother cut her ponytail off in the court room.

The mother is claiming "trauma" and wants to sue the judge.

So I guess the trauma suffered by the three year old her daughter SCALPED in a McDonald's doesn't count?

It was strictly optional...she could have taken the FULL sentence...but she wanted a reduction.

I would have been a helluva lot more "traumatized" to know that I had raised a 13 year old monster, who thought nothing of violating another kid by lopping off their hair...

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/06/25/singing-bride-bride-seren_n_1625333.html?utm_hp_ref=weddings

Remember that cute video of the couple dancing down the aisle with their wedding party?

THIS IS SO NOT THAT.

This chick apparently was not content with being the center of attention as she walked down the aisle.

Nope...she had to have her American Idol Moment.

And before you yell at me for being mean, check out the groom.

He does NOT look happy...at all.

He looks uncomfortable, and embarrassed.

Karaoke at the reception, by all means...but this was crass and tacky.

Attention whore, much?

Now I wonder what penalty they will levy against him...

I don't care HOW crappy your day has been...check out this link...and you will feel better.

http://dailyotter.org/post/25433246568/video-footage-otter-nomming-tail

Otters ROCK!

Since the world has pretty much determined that women are not allowed to be fat...or even allowed to be something that might BECOME fat some day, I  have a question.

How big can a man be?

I mean...seriously.

Growing up, the "average woman" fell between a size 8, and a size 12. If you were in that range, you were normal. Now size 8 is considered PLUS SIZE, and size 12 should be covering herself with a yashmak to avoid offending the eyes of the discerning.  I don't agree...but my opinion was not sought. But what about MEN? What size range are they permitted? I assume there is one...since women are now bound by some absurd numbers...aren't men too?

The trouble is...I know men who run a 38 waist...and consider themselves "Not bad".

A woman with a 38 inch waist would be classed as a HEIFER.

The assumption is that men will be taller...therefore are allowed more weight. But I have also noted that a man who is 20 pound overweight doesn't think of himself as FAT...but would not date a woman in the same size range.

So what is the male scale? Just wondering....

Not tepid,

Not cold,

More like that first breath

Of April air,

After a shut in Winter

That rattled the panes

And brought aches

With every scratch.

This is cool comfort,

You to me

No brain frozen delight,

No fetch the sweaters moment,

Just thee and me

Wrapped in a minute

No one else could deliver.

The young will fuss

Over marks and lines,

Bemoaning their lost perfections,

But I will be sassy nude with you,

Boldly sagging and bagging,

Knowing  you love the imperfections

As much as I love

Your silvered treasures,

And the deep lines that show

When I give you forbidden delight

As only we know how.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/huff-wires/20120614/us-scout-abuse-files/

This hit home for me. Several years back, one of my neighbors was arrested. He had been a respected scout leader for years...and was also a pedophile.

I wonder if they had any files on him? I have no real ax to grind with the BSA...but I believe that these files could have protected thousands of kids from abuse...and wonder why only now, we are hearing about it.

I am always fascinated by how much we seem to like Gangsters...particularly the Mob.

Movies, books, even video games about organized crime always go over big...but the reality is that almost no one can actually say what it's like unless they were there...or at least at the peripherals to observe. I was not "connected"...but I lived for six years above a family that was. The man of the house was a sweet guy who seemed to occasionally drink too much...but he treated his wife well. That meant something to me. (And no, I don't mean just with goodies, bling and boodle...he honestly seemed to respect her.)

I knew that he was a peripheral player...not "made", since he was not Italian...but he was big, sturdy, and fast on his feet. He also had the gift of talking himself out of almost any jam, which made him valuable to any crew. The only thing he did that made me nuts was sing "Mona Lisa" to me, when he had a few. I love the song now...but I grew up hearing it...and it used to make  me blush. Then one night, about midnight, there was a BANGING (not a knock) on our door. (if you never had the experience, a "BANG" is a lot more than heavy knocking...there is something imperative about it, that's hard to put into words.) It was our landlady's husband.

"Keep away from the windows...stay on the floor!" And then he pulled the slide on what looked like a HUGE gun, chambering a bullet. Like the knock, the sound had a quality of VERY real to it. In movies they do that for dramatic emphasis. I'm here to tell you that in real life, right in your face? Call it scary as hell. My mother and  I took his advice. We were literally laying on the floor, waiting---all the lights were off. This was a city area...it never gets truly dark there. The street lights filtered in...and I could see the look on my mother's face. We laid there for about an hour, before the absurdity struck me. We were closer to the windows just laying there, then we would have been in bed.  So I told my mother I was going there.

She grabbed my arm..."You'll get shot.".

Surreal moment.

My family was NOT mob...yet somehow I was at risk...because of our land lord's occupation, and associations. I believe I was 16 at the time. I decided I still preferred the comfort of my bed. Earlier, there had been some shouting in the street. I had heard a car pass, slow...then speed up.  But I was sick of cowering on the floor. Maybe being 16, I just assumed I would be safe. I got up and walked to the bedroom without a back ward glance.  Ten minutes later, my mother did the same.

I tell the story not to impress anyone with my 16 year old bravado, but to explain how I came to observe a life I was not actually a part of. There's a huge difference between "I know a guy, who knows a guy", and living upstairs from a man who pinch hit for the mob. I was frequently in his home---visiting his wife, whom I adored. I picked up things...despite the careful code they used, and found out after he died (natural causes) much too young that he frequently talked to her about things the "boys" rarely shared with their wives. She spoke to me frankly about the missing pieces...fascinating stuff.

Right up until the day she "shared" something with me for my own good. I was perhaps 20 at the time, and mouthing off about stuff I actually knew nothing about. My father had developed an opinion about someone they knew...and had decided he was the worst crook in the world...possibly stupid on top of it. I am guessing she decided that if I kept talking like that in front of the wrong person, I was going to get hurt. So she shared with me about who and what the "stupid crook" really was about. She told me that of all the mob types her husband had known, THAT ONE scared him the worst. He didn't strut and bluster. He seemed like a nice guy...always had a joke. And he was a stone killer, with more hits to his credit than any five guys in the game.

She said her husband had a gift...he knew exactly who he shouldn't piss off. And it wasn't based on rep, or gossip. He said you could look in a man's eyes and know his whole game. The man my father considered a stooge was perfectly content with that. It was the perfect cover. But one night, they played poker together, and just for an instant, the mask dropped. Her husband had NEVER seen eyes that cold and dead...not even in the War. A moment later, the mask was back...he was joking and lost a hand....but her husband knew what he had seen. Very quietly...and very carefully he asked around. The old guard were more likely to chat about the new turks. And one of them told him exactly who the merry joker was...and what his actual business was.

I listened with growing apprehension...grateful that my exposure to that world was minimal. I also desperately wanted to WRITE about it...but I also understood that to do so would be dangerous...so long as the affable, smiling crook was alive. I heard that he died a year or so back....and I still want to write about it...but I still pause. The new crew might not give a damn...but in their life, it only takes one person who does. No, I am not a mafia princess...but some of the stuff I saw growing up? Let's say I know enough to spot the fakes in film and fiction. But the truth makes an amazing story...

Today, there was further testimony in a case that shook this country only months back, when it hit the media.

A former assistant coach of Penn State was accused of child molestation...which tarred the rep of Joe Paterno, Penn State, and reminded us all again that our priorities are screwed up. The same public that was furious, and disgusted about the allegations of Pedophilia in the Catholic Church was suddenly unsure...because it involved FOOTBALL...and dammit...that was important.

As the victims come forward to share their testimony, I cannot help but be angry about not only what happened...but how. Let's put aside for a moment Mr. Paterno's part.  Sandusky established a "charity" for special needs kids. The organization gave him unprecedented access to young boys...access he seems to have exploited in the worst possible way. You have to ask yourself why NO ONE thought the better of some of his actions. Overnights with the Sanduskys? Really? Worse...some of the victims DID tell...and were either ignored, or told to their faces that they lying---trying to bring down a "great man".  Parents, teachers, guidance counselors...so many people seemed to have simply looked the other way.

Sandusky could never have gotten away with it...had fewer people been willing to LET it happen.

But...he was riding the coat tails of Penn State, Paterno, and football in State College PA. The children he chose were special needs kids...children we like to minimize, and ignore. It reminds me too much of the reports from turn of the century New York City, where children and orphans were sold into brothels to cater to wealthy deviants. They had no protection back then...one child actually applied for help from the ASPCA, since there was no organization to protect them at the time. And Sandusky was heralded as a HERO, for his interest in those "unfortunate kids". People gave him praise, and money, all the while enabling him to abuse, molest, and attempt to rape 11 year old boys.

He was not bribing them with candy...or cruising the playgrounds. The charity he established was a virtual harem...and since the boys were considered "troubled"...who would believe them? He also seems to have been VERY selective. He never made a move on the children of wealth, or influence. He seems to have very carefully chosen the kids who's parents would have been least likely to notice.  And that same man is now being tried for DECADES of abuse. People have strong opinions about his guilt...and what should be done to him. Others want to keep his actions separate from the memory of Joe Pa....pointing out that Paterno  did not commit the crimes.  A family member is very fond of Paterno, and was upset with me for suggesting that he failed, when he did not follow up on a report about Sandusky.

I'm sorry. but he DID. Paterno was just short of GOD in that region. Had he persisted, the matter would not have been ignored. But...he let it go.  And I am not blaming him...not exclusively. But it would be nice, if something like this could NEVER be allowed to happen again. The idea that so much cunning, and so much planning went into it is disturbing. But worse...it happened over DECADES. On the surface, all neat and tidy...a real human interest story.  Now we learn that the man's own wife lived in denial of her husband's actions...that he molested some of the kids under his own roof, while his wife was there.

Seriously...was NO ONE paying the least attention? Could we please do better in the future?  Can we start by not assuming that any child should be grateful for any attention someone pays them...because they are poor, or disadvantaged?

Can we stop confusing gays with pedophiles? Unless of course you want to call the ones molest little girls as heterosexual?  I never hear anyone call those bastards "straight"...so choose your terms with care.  And don't allow yourself to be sucked in by people with an agenda.  That Church tried to blame their mess between Priests and young boys on Gays---nice try. But it didn't wash.

I hope Sandusky goes away for the rest of his natural life...not because  I hate and loathe him, but because his defense is that he didn't know any better...and maybe was nuts. We have this weird habit of  excusing really horrific shit, if the person who did was crazy...and well off.  Crazy and poor? Who cares? But I don't want him walking free. Not ever again. He damaged families, and lives. He hurt children he was trusted to help...and he never stopped. I don't want him to move somewhere, and live comfortably.

But mostly...I want us to be a bit more careful about the people we call "heroes".

That would be a good start.