In lieu of Google Smackdown Monday today, I have another damn question.
Did you know it is illegal to be a midwife in Missouri? What the hell?
I can’t even have a midwife when/if I get pregant again? Where are the birthing centers? I can’t find ONE! Where would I find a water birth or a place more likely to allow me to do what I need to give birth naturally? Is it all medical all the time?
Crap.
Today the Raving Atheist attempted to use my post HERE to show how we “pro-abortionists”, including me, had “mindlessly reprinted portions of the Planned Parenthood email.” Here is the post.
To which I say, learn to read. Learn to read comments that come before yours. I didn’t argue with your commentry, because you are allowed your opinion. I wish those on both sides could have real, fact-based conversations that did not involve the word “sin” in them. The Raving Atheist is obviously not basing assumptions on religion, which I truly appreciate. However, I still get bothered when people can’t read. Or rather, when people WON’T read.
Comments are closed on the Raving Atheist article Comments are now open! I naturally emailed the author. The author I fully respect for having solid opinions. However, I did not “mindlessly” reprint an email. I thought about it, researched it. Decided that whether or not the Indiana case exists really doesn’t matter because these CPCs do exist. I’ve fucking been there. Please see this part: I’ve been there. Been there.
My email stated:
Dear Raving Atheist,
I read your entry on the fact that you include me as one of those who “mindlessly” reprinted the Planned Parenthood email on CPCs.
I want to point something out to you, again.
This comment on my blog, Sugaredharpy.com, mentions my own example of dealing with this kind of underhanded tactic. This comment appeared before yours:
“I wanted more info before I posted it.
This is not a new issue or a new tactic for abortion opponents. When I suspected I was pregnant at 17 with Daniel, I went to a crisis pregnancy center. I was told they were open-minded and supported whatever decision was made. They were located across the street from the hospital and suggested they worked with the hospital’s resources. But oh no. It was a Christian center. Luckily, their test was negative. I was pregnant, but with Daniel I ended up with 9 negative urine tests and only 1 positive (a blood test). They were ACTUALLY SAD that I wasn’t pregnant, because they thought that would be “so beautiful.”
I think the issue is being brought to the forefront right now because of fairly recent Bush funding for Christian-based Crisis Pregnancy Centers and then NY Representative Carolyn Maloney and eleven co-sponsors are introducing the “Stop Deceptive Advertising for Women’s Services Act” based on these situations.
When it happened to me, it wasn’t as dramatic, but it could have been. It was definitely deceiving.”
Please realize what you are talking about, that the tactics exist, that what you are talking about (when you say we/I mindlessly reprinted) is false. You failed to take the time to review the previous comments, because your own agenda was hot-headed. The issue is not about one CPC, not at all. It’s about the fight against deception, it’s about giving women factual information when it comes to their health, their bodies, and their children. I did not abort, but not because of a lie that CPC would have given me. I made that choice with fact, with information, with clarity. CPCs that run in this manner do nothing to prevent abortions, they only shame women and deny their right to real healthcare. Please understand this. Please take a moment to regard the health of women as a value worth having. Please trust women to do what they can for their children, born and unborn.
Anyone can say anything they want and I believe in that. I realize that this is entirely your right. But, I would advise you to watch how you discuss this, how you manipulate the idea of “fact”. And I would make sure you understand the argument you are flailing against, because you are off base on this one. It makes it makes it more difficult to understand your position when there is a clear denial of actual reading on your part. I’m sure others want to understand your position too, but this just sounds like spouting off, not research. I know you are capable of actual research and clear writing, use it to help your position. This post files right under “ignorant anti-abortionist” speak. I wish that weren’t the case, even though I’m pro-woman/pro-abortion/pro-adoption/pro-life, I wish for a fact-based, research-based conversation. This just isn’t it.
Melissa
Discussion?
It’s NOT legal to get paid to have sex (in most places), but it’s totally legal to get paid to have sex on camera?
Call it a naive question, but really, is there some legal loophole that makes it okay?
I’m not even asking about the logistics for the existence of porn in general and I’m not calling for making porn illegal, that’s entirely another post. I’m just wondering how it can be legal if exchanging money for sex is generally illegal?
This is what I’m calling a wild Friday night. Questioning the legality of porn is so hot. I think it’s my sad version of Melissa Summers’ Moms Gone Wild (within reason).
UPDATED! Of course, Defective Yeti would have the answers. Here you go!
It’s not an answer, per se, but it’s as close as our kooky American law system goes for now.
My children are now sporting two whopping bruises. For the record, I did not give them the bruises directly but I did give them the Slip N’ Slide.
It would seem that I have children who take after my sister, Lindy, and me. Meaning, they do not play with toys as intended by the design and instructions. We turned our pink Big Wheels on their backs and “wheeled” with the hands in order to make pretend chocolate chip cookies to sell. We were always selling invisible stuff, man. We dug holes in our sandbox, all the way down, just to do it. Then we put the sand in the baby pool, royally pissing off Mom. There were blankets draped over ironing boards for tents, baby dolls with price tags on them lined up on the floor, and my little ponies taking it from behind on the dresser.
Ah, the gifts we give our children…
Today, after a period of time Daniel emerged sweating and beaming because he had put up the Slip N’ Slide all by himself. Any eleven-year-old would be proud of that accomplishment as it looks easy, but there are pegs to be shoved into the dirt at just the right distances to make the slide smooth, but not taut. A hidden hose nozzle threatens to ruin everything, but lo, he found it. And get this, our Slip N’ Slide is a double. A double!
I know, no good could have come from buying a double Slip N’ Slide but we threw caution to the wind and got the thing. At least we didn’t get the triple (it’s real, people).
So, the boys are slipping and sliding. Do you remember the Slip N’ Slide? Those bitches always hurt me. My elbows and knees and hipbones bruised in an instant. These are not the bruises my kids got. They effortlessly glide down the yellow and blue lanes over and over. At least, while I was watching them. When I went inside, it would seem the real fun began and the Slip N’ Slide only became one of the tools in a new game. A game that included Daniel arching his body over both lanes and Brett hauling his body down the Slip N’ Slide. Faster and faster and faster.
It ended badly.
They are my children, so not only are they using toys in ways never instructed, they are clumsy. At some point, Daniel slipped a little while Brett was hurtling down the lane and Brett’s nose crashed into Daniel’s foot. There was screaming. Brett may or may not have two black eyes by tomorrow, his nose looks swollen and bruised. What’s more disturbing is that Daniel’s foot is swollen and bruised, too. Meaning that, wow, Brett’s face hit him pretty hard.
In other news, the kitty is okay!
Dearest Readers,
I’m up for Member of the Week for Crazy Hip Blog Mamas! Although, so are several other hot mamas that I drool over each week.
Go, see what the fuss is, and then remember who likes to give instructional posts about oral sex and tells you about the Jesus pan.
Special thanks to Cyndi for the nomination, spurred by a post on your perfectly fine vagina.
Dear reader who found my site whilst googling, “do we eat harpy?”,
Well, now what an interesting question we have here. I think the answer is unequivocally, yes.
As in, awwwww yeah. Come to mama.
On the other hand, if you are not skilled at harpy consumption, maybe don’t bother, mkay? Too frustrating for this harpy. Harpy eating is a skill. A skill that I’m wagering many people do not have. I can’t imagine how I would know this, but let’s just say I do.
A lot of sites have helpful instructions. Pick one, read it. Do not read instructions written by men. Although many men know exactly what to do (because they are good listeners), I still suggest you read what women write. Do it. Then, try some things, ignore others and pay attention to your harpy in front of you. Watch her movements, listen to her words and sounds, pay attention. And when she says “don’t stop,” don’t fucking stop. This I do solemnly swear, do not fucking stop.
As for taste, smell, hair blah blah blah. Read the blog headline: Her vagina/vulva/pudenda is fine. Anything else is really your problem, now isn’t it?
To answer your question, darling, yes. Yes, we eat harpy. When are you coming over?
Sincerely,
Melissa
I am forced by the powers of each season to change the site design.
Loveys, this one was inspired by your comments HERE.
Who knew it could be so easy to find a 17th century upskirt shot?
I have to thank you for all of your great comments regarding our personal adventure in gentle discipline. Jesus gay, thank you for helping us feel normal and sane and somewhat headed in the right direction with how we raise these batshit crazy creatures called “children.” So far, it’s going really well. We haven’t yelled at them in almost two days. Their father picked them up yesterday morning for the weekend.
Because you are good and kind, I have exciting things possibly to only me to share with you.
First on the list: The Jesus Pan. Awwww yeahhh. It puts Jesus right on dinner for you. The possibilities are endless. Jesus chicken. Jesus pancakes. Jesus salmon. Jesus uh, eggplant. Jesus eggs.
Next up: The Fray. If you’re not listening to The Fray you are maybe kind of a half-wit. Do yourself a favor and fall in lust with their “pitch-perfect, achingly beautiful” vocals and “sophisticated, emotional blend of tinkling pianos, acoustic and electric guitars, and gently insistent rhythms.”
And then we have: Got Medieval. Yesssss. Enjoy the little Bush problem of E Pluribus Unum being not exactly English, our sanctioned language. Love the discussion on South Park and the Virgin Mary’s menstrual habits. Stay for the historic personals, “lancasterblanche22: Why you should get to know me: ‘Because the plague only scarred me below the knees.”
Lastly: Spanx. Anne and I watched my sister uh, gracefully pour into one of these and we pissed ourselves laughing. Poor sis, we couldn’t help it, it was so crazy to watch. I’m not so sure this is a necessary item in life (again, no ManSpanx?), but if it makes you happy, go for it. But leave an extra half-hour to get ready if you plan on wearing these. Really.
Do you ever sit at your desk pulling out your hair, swearing, and hating Microsoft Word for not doing the things you NEED it to do and doing things you never told it to do? Like adding 4-inch margins or solid black lines for no apparent reason?
Yes?
Only to have your precious IT husband say, “Why aren’t you just using Publisher?”
Blah. Hate.
I’m doing it all in crayon and construction paper from now on.
Okay, gentle discipline. GENTLE discipline. What the living hell, you ask?
When the boys were smaller I made certain assumptions. I assumed they cried and made noise for a reason. I assumed they didn’t know or cared when mommy needed quiet, or a drink. I assumed they didn’t know how to eat at a dinner table unless I helped them and showed them the rules/customs. I assumed they needed to feel good to behave well. I assumed they had not been through the years I have and therefore, didn’t know everything like I do. I assumed I needed to provide guidance, love, and to help them meet boundaries. I assumed they were children.
Somewhere down the line I threw my assumptions into a McDonald’s drive-thru window and started expecting my eleven and ten-year-old sons to act like adults. Naturally, I was irritated that they didn’t automatically meet my expectations out at dinner with friends. I was irritated that they couldn’t anticpate when I would find a particular noise so annoying my nerves would glow an intense red. I was irritated they played with toys, laughed, sang, or ran around the house when I WAS WORKING MY GOD STOP I’M WORKING RIGHT NOW CAN’T YOU SEE I’M WORKING!
In addition to forgetting that I have children and not peers, I do not take care of myself. I rarely drink water, I eat extremely sporadically, I want to but don’t exercise very much, I’m a pitiful sleeper. It’s just a matter of uh, der, Melissa, if the kids do not act nicely when they feel like dogshit, so do you. In essence, I’m mad, cranky, irritated, and yelling a lot right now.
And this whole time, I’ve been functioning as though I need to correct my kids’ behaviors. Both Mike and I have moved to this place of wanting the irritating behavior to stop right now. Forget what the kids need long-term, that their behavior is normal kid behavior, or that their relationship with us overall is more important than any behavior. We are yellers, like our parents. Which, ugh.
Enter, Gentle Discipline.
I’ve recently been able to attend two small, intimate sessions with author Hilary Flower. I’m not one to read a book and immediately bow down to all things authored and printed. I think most parenting books suck, wedging guilt and shame and fear into the still-smooth sections of one’s heart. I can’t stand self-help books. I hate most magazines. I generally don’t like the authoritarian tone of these things and I believe parents know best. I also believe none of us know what the hell we are doing and are doing the best we can. I think that’s why I like Hilary and her book, Adventures in Gentle Discipline.
She wrote the book, but she didn’t write the book. She talked to parents all over and THEY wrote the book. She asked, “What are you doing?” “Does it work, like, ever?” “What are the negative pressures in your life that affect how you parent?” Hilary has three kids, and she nursed one off and on during the sessions. She was practical and down to earth. She said to ignore other people’s judging eyes and make your own damn behavior rules. She said a dozen times that she thought her publisher was crazy for even asking her to write this, because she’s normal. She yells sometimes. She says that sometimes a harsh no is absolutely in order, but screaming a harsh no all the time makes it ineffective. She compiled the answers parents gave her and she explicitly says that what works for one parent, doesn’t work for all of us. The book is published by La Leche League, but regardless of your feelings about the organization, this is a good book to read through.
I’m not selling you on this book. Or saying it’s the gold nugget you’ve been looking for. I’m saying this makes sense to me. All gentle discipline means is that you attempt to deal with your child with compassion and respect. The way you know you’re doing it is if you have a good relationship with them.
The biggest thing that hit me is that I do not take care of myself. I allow myself to get thirsty, hungry, tired, cranky. How do I expect to view the boys’ actions with any compassion? How can I care about their needs when all I want to do is nap? I just can’t. I’m too irritated to deal. Whether they are being loud because they’re fighting or playing, it doesn’t matter to me. I just want them to be quiet.
And really, why do I ever want them to be quiet at our own house? They’re KIDS!
I need to quit expecting them to know what I want them to do. If I have boundaries, it’s my job to meet them halfway and help them achieve those boundaries. If I have rules, they have to be clear. (I’m often not clear on my expectations.) If I’m tired, I need to recognize that the problem right now is me, not them. It’s okay to tell them to quiet down because I need 30 minutes of quiet, it teaches them to help take care of others’ needs too. If I just yell “STOP IT!” they miss out on learning compassion. I need to keep us all on better food, more water, more sleep. I put my eleven and ten-year-olds to sleep at 8, why were we going to bed at 1 am?
Another thing that hit me is that when I yell, and they listen, I’m teaching them to be compliant. To conform to what everyone else wants. I do not want that. I want them to be individuals who stand up for what they believe, regardless of popularity. I want them to be avid questioners, to be opinionated, to listen, to have compassion and respect for others, but never be sheep. When we yell directives, we’re teaching them to be sheep.
I need to let go of feeling bad when I’m not gentle and let go of any self-congratulations when I am gentle. It’s not about that. It’s not about doing gentle discipline “right.” It’s about trying my best. Mike trying his best. We want to have a healthy relationship with our kids, not teach them how to conform.