Not much to say, but something has to be said.

Anissa.

If you know her, you love her.

It just cannot be helped. She’s one of those people whose spirits suck you in and hold you hostage.

She’s my girl. The first time I physically met her, this past July, we grabbed each others tits. That was our handshake/hug/hello/nice to meet you in person. And for the rest of the weekend, they gravitated towards each other.

[via.]

Tell me that’s not special. (There was no alcohol involved)

Anissa had a stroke yesterday and she’s in ICU.

I am hoping and wishing and if I wasn’t blatantly atheist I’d be praying my fucking ass off.

Ha, I just thought of how Anissa and I joked about how neither of us had any asses, and it was probably the Mexican in me that made mine flat and wide, and the Asian in her that made hers flat and narrow.

Anyway folks, you can go here if you’d like to find out how you can help.

*

Anissa, I love you.

I expect to do you much more joking around and tit fondling with you in the future.

- María

This is child abuse. In my opinion, at least.

My head hurts just watching it. And the language that she is using towards her child – I mean, I curse around my girls but I don’t curse AT my girls. All of it is just indicative of a bad situation. That mother needs parenting classes, among other things.

I flagged this video on YouTube months ago. Apparently, they don’t think this is wrong or cruel or disgusting. So, I’m asking you – do you think this is child abuse? If you do, I suggest you flag it as well. If you don’t, pleaseeeeeeeee tell me what your thoughts on it are.

“If he loved you, he wouldn’t have hit you.”

Bullshit.

It’s such a common thing to say, but it’s not true.

Not always.

All relationships are different, just like the people in them are.

It is very, very possible to hit someone that you love.

Love and violence are not mutually exclusive.

Just because a person is not capable of handling their anger in a proper way does not mean they do not care for you,

and while I almost understand why someone would say this,

I don’t. Not quite.

They need to get help.

It is never ok.

But just because they did it, doesn’t mean they don’t.

Maybe they don’t enough.

Maybe they don’t at all.

But maybe they really, truly do.

It doesn’t make someone weak to believe that someone that beat them loved them. Love is not enough, love should not hold them to someone that hurts them in any way, but attempting to convince them that the person that loved them really didn’t is arrogant and cruel on your part. You weren’t in the relationship and you don’t know. And sometimes, that belief is the only thing that keeps them sane; sometimes it helps them maintain their self respect when they can’t for the life of them figure out why they remained in such an awful situation for longer than they should have.

Either way, “If he loved you, he wouldn’t have hit you.” doesn’t help.

FYI.

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Listening to: The Smiths – This Charming Man

Rented: There Were Two

This is an anonymous post from a dear blog friend of mine.

My daughter was a miracle. I don’t mean that in the religious sense or even in a devoted parent sense. She was a scientific miracle. For a year my husband and I tried to get pregnant with her. We went to many doctors and had more tests than I can enumerate. I was diagnosed with “unexplained infertility”and put on the infertility treadmill. Nothing worked. Then six months later, while we were on vacation and had no medical intervention I got pregnant.

If you have any inclination to say anything related to relaxing, shut your fucking hole. Being relaxed doesn’t cause pregnancy.

I always knew that I was incredibly lucky to have her and that I should never take for granted how she was finally conceived. I also always knew that I wanted more than one baby. When she was six months old we started trying again. More correctly, we never actually started trying to prevent pregnancy but I jokingly said to my husband when she was about six months old that if I were to get knocked up again I probably wouldn’t slit my wrists. My ideal would have been to have two babies 18 months apart.

After another year and a half it became clear that we were not going to get pregnant on our own again and we went back to a doctor. After multiple barrages of tests I was told that I have incredibly old ovaries. While I’m only 34 my hormones and ovaries act as if I were in my late 40s. Fucking beautiful. The doctor said that while nothing is impossible he did not believe that we would be able to get pregnant without medical assistance. Being that he is a doctor I suppose I wouldn’t expect any less from him. His recommendation a year ago was jumping straight to IVF a) because of my hormone levels b) because we had been trying for so long already and c) because I had expressed my wish for MJ to have a sibling close in age. After discussing it for a month my husband and I decided we should try some less invasive techniques. IVF seemed excessive to both of us since I had already had one baby and the cost was not something we could manage easily.

Jump forward one year, 4 IUIs, and 2 miscarriages. This time when the doctor said IVF we said yes. We borrowed the money from two exceptionally generous family members and started the process. I won’t go into the details. That’s not why I’m writing. I just thought a little background was necessary.

After all we had been through, I’ll be honest, I did not expect even the IVF to work so when the doctor called me that day to let me know that my blood test had come back positive I was in shock. “The numbers are low, but the hard part is over. You’re pregnant.”

The hard part is over.

I wish that had been the case.

The next week I was on cloud nine. After everything we had been through we were finally going to have another baby. It had taken 2 ½ years but it was worth it. Another baby was on the way. I was going to be due in June. I’d figured out the day to be June 18^th, although MJ had come early so who’s to say that baby #2 wouldn’t have as well. In either case, it was going to be a summer baby.

Things started going south on a Saturday. My husband had taken MJ to Ikea for the afternoon so she could play and they could look for big girl beds and get her mattress off the floor finally. A big sister needs a big girl bed. (No, we weren’t stupid enough to say anything to her about it). While they were away I developed a sharp pain in my right side. I’d been having cramping the whole week but as I had cramped on and off for a month when I was pregnant with MJ I didn’t think anything of it. This pain was different. It wasn’t uterine, it was on my right side. Just as I was starting to actually worry about it, it went away. I chalked it up as possibly intestinal. Until that night. 10:30 pm just as I was getting in bed the pain came back, worse than before. I spent a few hours lying in bed trying to breathe through it but that just wasn’t possible. Finally at about 2 am Jim convinced me to call the on call doctor at the clinic. He told me is sounded like I had a twisted ovary and I should get to the ER immediately to have it checked out. A friend came to stay in the house with MJ while we got in the car and went to the hospital. I started bleeding. A lot. I was terrified I was losing the baby.

After 7 or so hours of testing and waiting the ER doc came back and said that my blood tests were still positive, the pregnancy hormone was rising at the proper levels and that my ovary was not twisted. His best assessment was that I had an ovarian cyst that had ruptured. There was some fluid in my abdomen and that would without a doubt cause both the bleeding and the pain. I made a follow up appointment with my own doctor’s office for Monday and spent all of Sunday relieved and on bed rest.

Monday: I went to the office for routine blood work and an ultrasound. I was told by the on call doctor that he saw what looked like either a(n embryonic) sac or a blood clot in my uterus but that it was too early to tell either way. He was not optimistic about the ER doc’s diagnosis of a ruptured cyst and told me he was concerned that my pregnancy might be ectopic. In other words, he thought I had an embryo implanted in my right fallopian tube. He thought that was possibly the cause of my pain and the bleeding.

Oh, you.

You are the perfect child.

Now normally, when it comes to me doling out praise in braggadocios raves to strangers, it’s The Bella that gets most of it and you’re left with a “Oh, she’s just like me.” And you are, but that’s not what makes you perfect.

It’s that you embody everything of a child there is to love: in every one that’s ever been adored on television and in movies, in every one that’s been described as ideal in pregnancy and parenting books, every bit the sweet happy child with the balloons floating just off the ground in the paintings and sketches around the world. But also the ones we turn our noses up at during playgroups and read about as having auspicious behavior in the latest issue of Parents at the doctor’s office.

We spend all day together, every single day, and neither of us really tires of it. You’d always rather be with me than with anyone else, and I know it won’t last so I cherish it.  You let me hug and kiss and love all over you, you grab my hands and face and legs at random opportunities, and I’m the only one: physical affection isn’t your thing except for when it comes to mommy. I treasure it. I’ve seen with your sister that time is fleeting. I don’t have long to appreciate all your subtleties and nuances, your blaring characteristics, and blazing personality.

You are beautiful, and you are exasperating and you are the best and worst of me concentrated down and poured into a petite and big eyed frame; a girl with the biggest dark brown eyes that can convey any mood so heavily it becomes contagious, and most beautiful hair, even first thing in the morning, with it’s shine and chestnut highlights and cascading waves that everyone envies.

I love that you run with your chin in the air, giggling without a fear of a misstep, even on the uneven gravel. That when you tire me with so much to say that I reply an exasperated “Yes? Whhaaatt?” to yet another one of your “Hey mommy, hey mommy“s, you answer “Um, I love you.” and melts me.

You are the good and the ‘bad’. The the ideal and the less than ideal. You are my frustrating, enthralling, my knows all too well too soon how to milk being the baby, baby. That calls herself “Baby” in 3rd person, strips down naked at random occasions, whom I’m lucky to have running around in underwear at least, and who’s arms are still too short to fully hug around my neck, baby.

Today you’re not a baby – officially, like we discussed -  anymore. That hurts me so, but it makes me happy as well. Today you are four years old and you are so excited.

I hope you continue to be you forever. Maybe a little less like me, but still very much you: the perfect child.

I love you, forever, right now, and Happy Birthday, Goobalicious.