September 30, 2009

Roman Polanski, You Make Me Sick

When I was just a little girl, no older than nine or ten years old, my mom and I watched a television special about Helter Skelter and the Charles Manson story. My mother graduated high school in 1969, and just before her first semester of college, the news stories about the tragic murders of actress Sharon Tate and her three house guests dominated the airwaves and newspapers.

My mother and grandmother were devastated over the loss of such a talented actress, who was 8 1/2 months pregnant at the time of her death. They also felt sad for Tate’s husband, director Roman Polanski, and the grief he felt over losing his wife. My family is of Polish heritage and back in the late 60s, there was a kinship felt for “one of our own.”

Several years later, in 1977, Polanski was convicted of “unlawful sexual intercourse with a minor” and subsequently fled the United States prior to his sentencing. He has said in interviews that he was afraid the judge would give him a harsh sentence.

Polanski raped a 13-year-old girl.  Thirteen.  He was 44 years old at the time. Forty-four.

Polanski plead guilty to the lesser charge of “unlawful sexual intercourse with a minor” but didn’t stick around to serve his time.  He spent 42 days incarcerated while undergoing a psych evaluation, but he never paid for his crime.  He fled to France immediately after his release.  His victim did receive a settlement from Polanski,  and has since stated she has forgiven him for his crime and just wants to move on.

I understand this woman just wants to be left alone, but if Polanski is let off the hook for raping a young girl, what does that say about our American justice system?  That sexual assault is okay, as long as you’re famous and can buy your way out of it?  That all you need to do to get away with rape is to flee the country in which you committed the crime?

Polanski himself said he didn’t think anyone was truly hurt.  He doesn’t believe he raped this young girl.  His victim was drugged and pumped with alcohol.  He forced himself on her multiple times, despite her pleas to stop.  She said no. Last time I checked, NO means NO.

Polanski has been living life as a free man for the last 32 years.  He has continued to make films, despite having an arrest warrant out for him since 1978.  He’s taken every action imaginable to avoid extradition, by choosing not to travel to countries that may arrest and extradite him.  In so many ways, he “got away with it.”

The fact that many Hollywood actors and actresses, journalists and artists are defending Polanski, and asking for his release sickens me.  It makes me want to vomit.

Whoopi Goldberg saying “it wasn’t really rape-rape” is infuriating.  Rape is rape, Whoopi.  If this were any other Joe Schmo, and not a famous director, you would be screaming from the rooftops that the offender be locked away in jail.

Debra Messing saying that Polanski served his time is outrageous.  If this was a case against Mel Gibson and his drunken rants and insults to Judaism, you would be outraged.  I’m certain some anti-Catholic rhetoric would be thrown in to the mix as well.

And this bullshit that Polanski has lived a difficult life and suffered through the Holocaust makes me angry.  Yes, it’s awful that his mother died at Auschwitz.  Yes, it’s horrible that his wife and unborn child were murdered.  I understand the grief and the trauma he has suffered, but this does not make it acceptable to rape a 13-year-old girl.  It does not make it okay to flee the country to avoid jail time.

Should we let every rapist who suffered the loss of a parent or the murder of a family member go free?  Of course not.  Doing so undermines the rights of the victims to receive justice.

I’m so angry about Polanski, it’s hard for me to express every thought running through my head.  But this article says everything I’ve wanted to get out.   I couldn’t have put it better myself.

Roman Polanski, you deserve to serve your time.  You committed a crime and should be punished for it.  Thank you, Switzerland for doing the right thing and arresting Polanski.  May justice be served.

September 25, 2009

On Nesting. And Going Crazy.

So, I’m nesting.  Sort of.  It goes in spurts, really.  One day I’m too tired to do anything at all.  The next day, I’ll be completely neurotic about something, SOME VERY IMPORTANT THING, and it will need to be done, RIGHT NOW, or no one in this house goes to bed that night.

The house must be clean!  CLEAN, I say!  The littlest things will bother me.  Like socks on the floor (I’m looking at you, Doug and Dawson).  Or toys.  ALL. OVER. THE HOUSE.  And the clutter.  Magazines, school papers and half-opened mail are piling up on my kitchen table.  I have six million tomatoes on my kitchen counter. And I cannot deal with it. Not any of it.

Add to this mix of chaos and insanity the fact that I’ve been trying to clean out the pantry for two weeks, but I cannot get to it because those other things (see above) are nagging at me.  So I take time out of my day to deal with that and then have no energy whatsoever to do anything else.

I started sorting baby clothes a few days ago, and then I was sidetracked by vacuuming the living room, because in my mind people could show up unexpectedly, and why would I want them to see that a child actually lives here?  One with too many toys?

Poor, poor husband.  I’ve been a raging ball of hormones and have yelled at him repeatedly for not helping me enough.  Several times each day he tried to escape my wrath by heading to the garden and harvesting tomatoes that I swear he already picked.  The very same tomatoes on the counter.  I really think he takes some away at night and brings them back in the house the next day.  You know, so that it looks like he’s doing something.

Also, I think he’s shoved cotton balls in his ears because I have to REPEAT MYSELF CONSTANTLY.

I asked him five times to take the broken bread machine to the garage to be thrown away.  After it sat on the dining room floor, next to the deck door, for TWELVE days, I finally took it out to the garage myself.  An F-bomb was said and the neighbor across the street heard me.  She no longer waves at me when we pass each other on the road.  Apparently, I am now the closest thing to the devil himself.  At least to her.  Okay, and my husband. Whatever.

Doug was all, “Geez, Louise!  Settle down!  What is wrong with you?  And F-word?  Over a bread maker?”

And I lost my mind.  I began crying and shaking and raving like a freakin’ idiot.   I was sputtering, “You don’t understand!  YOU JUST DON’T GET IT!”

We didn’t speak the rest of the night.  The next day things were fine.  That is until he buried the chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream behind a bunch of other crap in the freezer.  The yelling ensued.  More tears were shed.  I promptly sent myself to bed.  I didn’t want the damn ice cream anyway.  What I really wanted was a big fat margarita in a glass the size of my head.  With lots of Tequila.  But alas, the things we give up to bring a beautiful, chubby baby into the world.

Speaking of babies, I don’t think we’ll be having any more children after my outbursts.  What man wants to have sex with a stark raving lunatic?

In my defense, I just can’t help it.  It seems like I have no control over anything anymore. Especially my hormones.

Also, I’m the the only one who does anything around here.  The huz tries to help, but things go unfinished because he thinks he has other, more important priorities (like painting the garage door and trim, and installing a new garage door opener, because he thinks winter is arriving tomorrow).  Then I become infuriated and the stupidest things set me off.  I can’t do it all.  I physically cannot do everything.

Poor Dawson thinks his mother has turned into the chupacabra from his Scooby Doo DVD.

I probably have turned into a monster.

My days are chaotic.  This is my typical daily routine:

• Wake up early (most of the time)
• Work for 2 hours
• Check e-mail
• Wake Dawson
• Get Dawson dressed
• Let Murphy out to pee
• Feed the dog
• Make breakfast for Dawson
• Make sure Dawson brushes his teeth
• Check Dawson’s backpack and folder to be sure all forms and things are signed and sent back
• Get Dawson on the school bus
• Work 3 more hours
• Check e-mail
• Wait for the bus to drop off Dawson
• Make lunch for Dawson (oh yeah, and for me!)
• Let the dog out to pee, again.
• Put on Spongebob to occupy Dawson
• Finish working
• Straighten the living room, dust and vacuum
• Wash dishes
• Check on the laundry and try to put it all away
• Check Dawson’s backpack and folder for new notes and/or forms
• Pay bills that may be due
• Check e-mail
• Pick-up stray toys around the house, or command Dawson to do it
• Take Dawson outside to play
• Return books to the library and check out new ones
• Try to read a book that does not have colorful illustrations and rhyming words
• Sort toys and set aside two boxes for Goodwill
• Clean out the storage closet and donate more items to Goodwill
• Fold more laundry but forget to put it away
• Read books to Dawson
• Ask Doug seven times to load the boxes in the car so I can drop them off at Goodwill the next day
• Ask Doug to make dinner while I take a nap
• Fall asleep watching television (most likely Dancing with the Stars)
• Yell at someone for something because my hormones are out of whack

Oh, and did I mention the 349 times I have to stop what I am doing at any given time to pee or wipe a certain 5-year-old’s butt.  And let’s not forget the occasional adjustment to the schedule for conference calls or MOPS and MOMS Club meetings, or Church Activities.  And Saturday Soccer.  Or going to the bank, post office and grocery store every Friday.  And the fact that my husband is most often working (or hiding in the GARDEN) while I’m trying to manage this damn household.

And you people wonder why I’m crazy?

To my husband and son I say:  Y’all better hope I don’t die in childbirth, because it appears you CANNOT FUNCTION WITHOUT ME.

September 24, 2009

Too Much Information

If you get embarrassed easily or are a member of my family, I suggest you hit that tiny red X in the upper right corner of your web browser.

Why, you ask?

Because I’m about to write something that you probably don’t want to read.

Are you people gone yet?

No?  Suit yourselves.

Here goes:

MY CROTCH HURTS.

Seriously.  I can no longer walk without pain.  My groin, my inner thighs, my hips, my lower back and buttocks, all of my nether regions, HURT.  Terrible, awful, aching pain.

I cry getting out of bed every morning.  I cry when I have to go downstairs for any reason.  Sitting down and standing up are brutal.  Rolling over in bed at night is torture.

And!  I can feel the baby’s head turning inside my uterus.  His gigantic head is pressing on my cervix.  I just know it.  The nurse at the doctor’s office (I had my 35-36 week – depending on the doctor – appointment on Tuesday) told me, “Second babies do not drop until labor begins.”

“Oh, yeah?” I told her. “Well, I think you’re full of poo because I can feel his head against my cervix.  This baby has dropped lower into my pelvis.”

She rolled her eyes at me.  Oh, yes she did.  And I laughed.  Then I cried.  And she quickly left the exam room because HEAVEN FORBID a hormonal, nine-months-pregnant-woman should cry.

I had my ultrasound that same day and the baby’s estimated weight is 6 pounds, 13 ounces.  On August 31st, his weight was around 5 1/2 to 5 3/4 pounds.  He’s up almost one pound in 3 weeks.  Give or take 6-8 ounces they say. And then my doctor tells me, “He’ll now start gaining a pound a week.”

And I did the math.  Technically, with 4 weeks to go until my due date, I could have a ten pounder.  Like I could push ten pounds out of my vagina? I’m going to cry again.

This isn’t news to me, however.  I had an appointment last week, and Dr. B told me they will not let me go longer than 38 weeks.  Which, THANK GOD, I don’t know how I’d deal with this labor, knowing how large this baby might be!

While I have good childbearing hips (no lie, when I was pregnant with Dawson, the doctor at the time told me so), and could probably deliver just fine, my current doctor is concerned that I will tear and/or have labor troubles which could result in a C-section.  I decline the C-section.  Unless absolutely medically necessary of course.

So.  I asked again about this 38 weeks thing.

“Most likely,” he said, “You’ll be induced via pitocin between 37 and 38 weeks, 39 at the absolute latest.”

I’ll need to have one more ultrasound (in 2 weeks) and if this Monster Baby is over 8 pounds induction will be scheduled for the same week.

Yeah, so I could have a baby in 18 days or so.  Panic has set in around here.

Honestly?  I think the baby is trying to bust out right now.  I believe he will declare his own birthday.  For real.  The pains, the aches, the moodiness, the NESTING THAT IS MAKING MY HUSBAND CRAZY… yes, I think he’ll be here much earlier.  And I am freaking out.

As long as the baby doesn’t decide to come before Dawson’s birthday party this weekend.  That’s all I ask.

Okay, that, and an end to this CROTCH PAIN.

September 20, 2009

Where Have I Been, You Ask?

I’ve been pregnant.  I’ve been living life.  I have so much to blog about, yet I cannot decide where to begin.

I realize I haven’t written very many “real” posts since the trio of pregnancy (“yes I have pre-eclampsia, wait, no I don’t have pre-eclampsia”) posts, and of course my tribute to my adorable, now 5-year-old son.

Truth be told, there has been so much going on in my life that little time is left for actual blogging.  I have reminders on post-it notes, and napkins, with blog post prompts and ideas.  I’ve got messages popping up in Google calendar reminding me to write about Dawson’s first day of school (September 1st) his first day riding the school bus (September 9th), his 5th birthday (and his upcoming belated birthday party on the 26th), as well as news from my doctor that I will be induced in about 3 weeks (there goes my natural childbirth plan; right out the hopital window).

I just cannot find the time to get it all down.

Doug has been working crazy shifts the last three weeks, leaving me to manage working from home, making sure Dawson gets to school (with all the signed forms, book orders and magazine selling fundraiser orders in his backpack), organizing myself for MOPS meetings (I’m on the Steering Team), volunteering a few hours at church and many other important things.  Like bill paying.  And house cleaning.

And oh my gosh, the damn laundry!  And…AND!!! The nesting.  It has begun.  Sorting baby clothes, trying to figure out the best layout for the room Dawson and Baby will share.

Did I mention we ordered a glider and ottoman from Target?  We did.  It arrived last Wednesday.  The gigantic box is still in the hallway, its contents waiting to be assembled.  But, my husband, working the insane shifts (sometimes 8 a.m.-4 p.m., sometimes 10 a.m. – 6 p.m., others Noon-8 p.m., and today 6 a.m. to 2 p.m.), which I cannot keep straight, keeps him busy and what little time he has available is spent in the garden picking the massive harvest of tomatoes that we cannot seem to preserve fast enough.  We’ve had to enlist the help of my mother-in-law.  Partly because we’ve run out of freezer space.

I’ve managed to take tons of photos, which currently reside in Flickr, and I hope to post some soon.

Oh, and Dawson started soccer two weeks ago.  Yesterday he scored his first goal!  He was so excited.  I’m so proud of the child.  He amazes me.

So yeah.  I’ve been busy (like you haven’t, right?  I know.  I KNOW!).  And it’s only going to get busier.

Deep breath.

I’m working on the blogging.  I am.  Please be patient with me.  I will get back into the groove.  Eventually.

Holy Smokes.  This post was insane.  It’s only fitting, I suppose.  I feel insane myself…!