Gender Roles...not so black and white. (Or pink and blue)

I think somewhere along the line of bearing and raising children, we all as parents are faced with confronting our own notions of where women and men respectively fit into society. I know as a mother I was hit with it as soon as I became pregnant with my oldest son, and it was a real touchy and grave subject to me, seeing as I happened to be married to the king of late-twenties, chauvinistic misogynists. As far as he was concerned, it was a simple matter: a man would work, come home to be waited on, drink beer and exercise any privilege or whim he wished, because...well, he had a penis and generally at least a few pounds and inches on his wife. And conversely, a woman would stay home, raise the children, care for the house, cook the meals, wait on her husband and have rights to go nowhere but the kitchen, bedroom and occasionally the grocery store unaccompanied because those are the only places acceptable for our rib-stealing, whorish gender once owned under the Almighty Law of Marriage.
I never wanted my son to think like that...I often felt it important to remind dear batshit husband that we ditched the horses for motorized carriages called "cars", black people are no longer pieces of property, and utes womanfolk are now permitted to vote, drive and work. Which often prompted a swift slap across my mouth or two hour screaming session because I have yet to learn to properly "shut my whore mouth". Go figure.
The discussions of gender came just ad swiftly. In the vague future of "teenage years", my daughter would have a strict curfew of ten o'clock, my son, none. The rationale behind this? Boys can't come home pregnant. Because clearly unplanned pregnancy is the only concern with teenagers. And clearly him getting someone pregnant is not a possibility. I see it as a pretty overt message: men are entitled to more privilege than women. Conversely, that my daughter I'd more protected than my son. Awful. Sorry, asshole, but I personally loved my kids in utero before I even saw their tiny genitals. Equally. So pink or blue, it doesn't make a difference, I want the same for each and every one.
That being said, although my experience with sexism is extreme, we as a society have a hard time parting with those age old rigid gender roles. Financial burden is shared more equally between spouses than ever. In comparison, the progression of the division of household labor and chilcare is, well, lagging.
I'll say one thing, the more old school you go, the more your kids lose...girls, and boys.
Hypothetically, had we stuck out batshit husband's amazing plan to the end, what would my children have been taught?
Well, my daughter would believe in subservience to a man, hook line and sinker. She would believe herself to be inadequate, lesser, incapable...fragile and secondary. She might develop a shot (or more) of resentment for men, mixed with an unquenchable thirst for male affection, topped off with a splash of antiquated notions about her place in the household and world. Pretty stiff self destructive cocktail. And my sons? A sense of entitlement, delusional grandiose, an affinity for testosterone and control-fueled aggression...masking a heartbreaking emotional vulnerability because girls are protected (nurtured), not boys. Boys don't cry, boys don't deserve comfortable limits, boys are exempt from the rigors of boundaries.
You can't lock down a child, nor can you let them roam free. That in itself is a recipe for dysfunction. Add in reproductive organs as the rationale...and we can expect a generation of fucked up people.
Girls are not all pink, boys are not all blue. They're people.
We all hold on to some bigoted beliefs, be honest! My oldest son, at nearly three, is rounding out a nearly yearlong phase of loving tea parties, dollhouse and baby dolls. And yeah, for a while there, I cringed. Because this is not "manly" stuff. But don't I want him to develop those domestic inclinations to share the burden equally with his future spouse? Old notions die hard. I came to terms with the fact that my son is himself, a beautiful, sweet little person with a wonderful vocabulary, affectionate, with a kind heart and a sharp sense of humor and even in a fucking pair of heels and a dress, all these amazing qualities would still be prevalent as ever.
If anything, the way I feel about gender roles, is that boys need more equality. Boys are disfavored in school, emotionally repressed, privy to morally questionable role models. Our present day "female empowerment" is a damn joke. Men were at one point encouraged to womanize, while women were faced with stigma for exercising sexual freedom. So what did we as a society turn to? Glorifying female promiscuity. What?!? Chlamydia isn't sexist, ok? Why must we lower female standards? Why can't we up it for males? I don't want my daughter to be a rampant slut...but I don't want my sons to be, either.
I'm no feminist. There are biological, inborn differences between the genders, absolutely. Irrefutable. I wouldn't be so presumptuous as to challange that. So...in our abilities, natural strengths and gender specific traits, men and women are not equal. But in our value as human beings, our responsibilities as parents and members of society, and moral accountability, we are. My children will be raised with the same exact rules, moral expectations and curfews, regardless of sex. We are NOT ignorant inbred white trash.
So I no longer cringe even a little when my sons pick up a baby doll. I gladly babysit for my son's make believe newborn (her name is Emily. His choice.) I attend mixed company tea parties, and I indulge the occasional mixed-gender game of Pretty Pretty Princess because bling is bling, bitches. My boys are intrinsically boyish and my girl girly, but they are kids, and deserve the opportunity to explore everything they reasonably and safely can. And if they didn't fit neatly in to the gender package, well, they'd still fit perfectly in my heart. I smile just as much when my boys zoom matchbox cars around my livingroom as when they try on their sisters dressup heels. Its probably just a phase. And I imagine it's pretty hard to beat your wife in a pair of stilettos.

Thanksgiving

It's that time of year again. Turkey and all the fixings, football, family....I love this time of year. The kids and I have been talking a lot about being thankful, because with the moral and judgement deficits in my own life, I never miss an opportunity to dole out a lesson in character.
And this year, we happen to have a lot to be thankful for. To understand, we're going to have to take a look at some past Kate family Thanksgivings.
Or should I say, Batshit family Thanksgivings.
Batshit husband was always adamantly against traveling for the holidays. For someone like me, whose childhood consisted of all packing into the car and heading to Grandma's to celebrate with my extended family, this was a traumatic change. But seeing as my opinion was about as important as a beer at an AA meeting in my "marriage", I had no reasonable option but to blow off Grandma and concede. So, instead, we spent our first of several sorry Thanksgivings with his sister.
Total. Fucking. Clusterfuck.
First off, even though most of his immediate family lives within 20 minutes of one another, they did not all attend said Thanksgiving dinner. So we're left with Batshit husband, Mama Batshit, one of the sisters, and her inlaws. Even though this event was hosted at the sisters, I ended up supplying everything, including THE TURKEY, while she contributed a few assortments of canned vegetables. To make a long and pathetic story short and slightly more bearable, I sat and ate MY turkey with complete strangers and people I hate while my husband and mother-in-law bitched incessantly about how shitty this was and my sister-in-law got plastered. Thats the stuff memories are made of.
The next one wasn't much better. Batshit husband and Mama Batshit refused to repeat the previous year, so we spent it just the three of us and our kids, stuffed into the tiny efficency where we were living. Fun.
This year, sans awful inlaws, we are preparing for a three day extravaganza filed with church, friends, family and food. As it should be.
So when I asked the kids what they were thankful for, I was not at all surprised when my oldest son replied, "That the police put daddy in jail.", just a little sad. Our safety and an actual joyful Thanksgiving is a lot to be thankful for! But when his sister insisted on, "chocolate milk", I was perplexed and offended. I do so much, we are so blessed....CHOCOLATE FUCKING MILK?!
Then I got to thinking. Who puts the milk and chocolate syrup in the fridge? Who lovingly prepares said chocolate milk, and makes sure she doesn't get it in excess? This woman. Chocolate milk is delicious, and an expression of my maternal love. It's something that she enjoys with her siblings and friends. It's a treat, a reward...it's something to be thankful for, yeah. Actually, that child is more grateful than I am. I get so caught up in my daily life that I am rarely thankful. In fact, I made the kids give up their list, but did not offer my own.
I'm thankful for my freedom and safety. I'm thankful that my family is close and loving and supportive and NOT the Batshit clan. I'm thankful for my beautiful, smart, healthy children and my awesome fucking friends, for the roof over my head and the food on my table. I'm thankful to be alive, that in a few hours I will be enjoying a beautiful holiday and not stuck with depressing white trash. I'm thankful for my church. And yeah, I'm thankful for Batshit husbands continued incarceration (therefore our continued safety), and I'm thankful for chocolate milk. Why not?
Have a happy Thanksgiving everyone. I'll have a glass of wine for all of you!

Priority Check, eisle nine.

When I first sat down to blog,  armed with a glass of Sutter Homes and furious resolve NOT to die unwanted and alone with a brood of ungrateful and embarrassed offspring, I thought my mission was simple. Forget loser husband, poke fun at batshit crazy inlaws, find a series of outrageous dates and go on with my little dysfunctional fairytale ending with Mr. Right (for me).
Well, its been a while. Curious as to why? You all know you LOVE my chaos.
I won't dissapoint, I promise.
My family has gotten caught up in the normal flurry of day to day life. My eldest started school (thats a WHOLE other post!), we have had schedules to adjust, potty training x2 to tackle, trick or treating, first school dances to attend, and, oh yeah...their dad got tased repeatedly and arrested from my apartment for beating me, all with our kids right there.
Sordid drama. As you would expect. Blog worthy, the only people left dissapointed are my parents.
I could rehash every little detail of that awful night, but there is a local newspaper article (yup, it was that kind of thing), and I'm all about protecting privacy here. Even in the case of people I hate.
And really, it's the aftermath that matters.
This is a cautionary tale.
What a lot of people don't understand, myself included at one blissful point, is that domestic violence is so  much more than just a beating or fifty. It's mind control, with self confidence and mental health taking the brunt of the abuse. Add kids, shake it all up with the instability of the cycle of abuse, and you've got a family on the rocks. The courts, child protective services, therapists, all label me as "the victim". I'm not. I choose to engage with this guy. My kids are the only real victims. And they suffer.
Let me paint you a picture of what happens when you beat your kids mother, degrade her, insult her, threaten her.
My daughter stays up at night waiting by her window, afraid he'll come back. She tells me, social workers, teachers and anyone else who will listen that she is afraid he will kill me. She has called me a "stupid cunt". My son, his fathers namesake, told his preschool teacher that his daddy is a "monster" who hurt his mommy. They are  traumatized. Every day is a fight, as they attempt to proccess what they just can't. Every child is in therapy, even my two year old.
Here we insert the Batshit Clan.
What else would they do but, loudly proclaim his innocence. In one online post the phrase, "Mr. _____ is the real victim here." The police lied, I lied, the witnesses lied...poor Batshit husband. Clearly the only one to trust here is the guy who kicked the cop and got cuffed after five taser rounds. But thats the cards these people were dealt. And his sister waiting outside  the courthouse to threaten me and ramble about "karma" makes their case all the more compelling.
I owe my former inlaws a resounding thank you, though. I can look at them and get a comprehensive preview of what will happen to my family if I don't spartan up and end this. It's not very pretty, functional or educated. Sometimes it takes sobering reality through something drastic to show you what really matters. And I know that even marrying Jason Aldean will not make me happy if my kids grow in to a bunch of hot messes.
Worry not. My foundation remains. I'm still broke. Still have a tribe of kids, still love my cheap wine and eccentric friends. And I still have the worst inlaws ever pulled off an episode of cops. But is Kate overly concerned with dating? Nope.

The Power of Chores

Someone once told me that the main reason the world should continue to repopulate is, cheap labor. Kids get to a certain age and for those blurred years that you covered EVERY aspect of personal and family care, they have to start giving back. Ideally.
It is my personal belief that children should start being assigned chores around two. Nothing huge, I save the oil changes and oven cleaning for my five year old, but two is a good age to implement cleaning up toys, sorting laundry, helping to make the bed.
Let me just point out, chores sound wonderful, but it's not easy. Small children are programmed to have fun at all times. Chores, hard as you may try, are not always fun. And those young children grow into older children who are inundated with schoolwork, socialization, television...all seemingly more important than chores. Then they grow into teenagers, and well, you know.
But chores are important. They teach responsibility. When handled properly, they give children a proud sense of belonging and contribution to the family. And they help to afford you the luxury of say, a shower or a few minutes in a book or writing in your blog ahem. For me, chores are not even a question. I am the sole caregiver and provider for an entire tribe. I have eight trillion more important things to do every day than put away ALL those clothes, sort ALL those shoes and pick up ALL those toys over and over and over again. I like the beds made in the house. But if the kids didn't do it, let's be realistic, it wouldn't get done.
And chores have helped us bond. When my kids proclaim, "This is my house," they couldn't be more right. From the innocent little age of two years old, they become cogs in the gears of the mechanics from which my house is run. It doesn't always run smoothly, we have our yelling matches, but I made a decision some years back when children began popping from my loins like little baby rabbits, I will not ever be perfect. I am a good enough mom.
Which is good enough for me. The kids' school and daycare are constantly raving about my children's behavior and intelligence. "If we could clone your kids and put all those clones in this school," they tell me, "We would." Instant gratification.
Growing up, and until she passed away recently, I was incredibly close to my grandmother. If you knew her, you would've been too. Having raised seven children who raised their children, who for the most part all turned out to be successful, intelligent people - and all turned out to be good, kind family oriented people, I trusted her opinion entirely. She had been a school teacher from the age of nineteen. Grandma knows kids. And in between priceless bits of advice and encouragement, she would forever praise my parenting and the amazing people my children are shaping in to. "It's uncommon and so beautiful," she would gush, "How well behaved they are."
It will forever touch my heart, that my children were mentioned in her eulogy. I am so proud to have created such amazing little beings that were able to touch her life so profoundly. The way that she touched mine.
Still waters run deep, as they say. The meaning that I glean from my flash of a life comes from more than just these dates that I push myself to go on, more than a bad husband that has shaped us so completely.
No matter where we go from here, the foundation in which I build my children's lives will never waiver. Trust me when I say, even when they come home for summers from college (which they WILL attend), they will still have chores. Because we will forever be a family, and they will forever be components to the mechanics of my life. Grandma taught me that much.

The story of Domestic Violence: Yes, I am still alone.

At this point in my life, I mildly loathe all men.
It's unfair, biased, and ridiculous, but every time a man shows any slight interest in me, I go through what I like to call the "Kate downward spiral of romantic self destruction."
a. I assume he is trying to use me in some way. I'm broke, overwhelmed, I have little interest in sex...I can offer you nothing, buddy. Move on.
b. You're still talking to me. You must be crazy. As you speak, I am assessing you for signs that you are a sociopath.
c. Oh, you coach little league? Child Molester. You may be a decent guy, but I now hate you. I have convinced myself you have anger problems, are lazy and manipulative, and have a wife and children at home. I am looking for concrete flaws to pick out and use to mock you.
d. Enter sarcastic comments about: (clothing, job, name, facial features, mentioned interest)
e. You are awkwardly trying to deflect my insults and leave the conversation. You might have been interested in me a few minutes ago, but I'm not worth all this.
f. You leave. I assure myself that you were planning on killing me and eating me after the drinks you mentioned at the Sandbar, or that you wanted to get me intoxicated so you could move in to my apartment the very next morning and drain every last little financial resource I have.

I am such a freakin' charming catch. Why am I still single?!?

In my defense, you try marrying a guy that leaves you perpetually pregnant, rarely works, beats the ever-loving crap out of you for a few years and then "graduates" to just calling you a whore and degrading your genitals. His fidelity? Questionable. His I.Q.? Comparable to that of a piece of french toast.

Male half of the species, feel my wrath. I will punish you all for this mans misdeeds.

And behind my man-hating rage, I kind of feel like crap about myself, most of the time. Mission accomplished, Bat Shit.

He tells me I have a cavernous, gaping vagina. Now, I can assure you, the first thing that I do in the morning is NOT check to see how my vagina looks. But, eh, do I really want to venture into sexual relations with someone new when it is questionable as to whether or not I'm going to need to sell tickets for a mystical Cave of Wonders tour? He tells me I'm stupid. I'm probably not. In fact, I'm nearly certain that the combined IQ of his family tree is 47, legally retarded. I have more teeth in the right side of my head than his immediate family, total. But I can't always be certain that I'm really the one with the last laugh...twisted, right?

Domestic violence counselors will tell you about the cycle of abuse, about power and control, how the whole objective of these relationships is to wear the victim down until she (or even he) is a shell of who they were. Most people off the street can tell you that. What isn't so commonly known, is that a lot of time, the roles of aggressor-victim are blurred over time. The aggressor plays victim, and the victim gets aggressive...things spiral out of control faster than a bad night in Tijuana.
He has two arrests, you have countless bruises, he scares away all your friends and family...but you're the bad guy. He threatens to kill you, the kids you have in common and all your family, but you're the one who's crazy. He gets tackled by the cops after slitting his wrists and threatening suicide, but it's all your fault.
If you could just shut your mouth when he told you "enough", he wouldn't have to hit you. He's never hit any one before, it's something in you that brings it out. He hates you and wants you to die, he loves you more than anyone ever has or ever will, and he can't live without you.
The social workers come in and take your kids. Your daughter is throwing violent tantrums and calling her dolls "nasty whores". You cry every night, wondering what happened. You stay with him, because that's the only way he says you will ever see your children again. You make a move and leave him, and the social workers say if you hadn't, you never would have seen them again. But he still says YOU'RE the bad parent.
You have custody, and he doesn't. But you're the worst mother in the world.
The first rule of leaving the abuse behind, take it from me: live in reality. Because the aforementioned, is not reality.
The aftermath is, you can't trust yourself. How could I now? I lived like this for YEARS, people. I believed that every warped and twisted lie that came out of his mouth was truth, absolute. Living with this man was like looking at the world around me through a kaleidoscope. Everything is distorted, fragmented. Coming out of that, I have to imagine, is like kicking a hard drug. You question everything around you.
I try every day to live in reality. I try to remember that not every man that approaches me wants to control me, use me, murder me, or diddle my kids. But it's hard. Look at what I chose to marry, look at how I chose to father my children.
How can I really trust my own judgement??

My Ode to the whole freakin' BatShit Clan.

Ok, Parker. Me, Holding things back? Nah.
Parker of Fuck you Friday (which will probably win a Pulitzer by the time I'm done posting, because he, like me, is super-famous on the web), left me a comment on my "Bad Judgement Call" post for leaving out what I said to Mama BatShit.
Me, holding things back? Nuh, uh, buddy...I am totally unfiltered.
So I will elaborate. But I HAVE TO leave out personal details about their family that I so kindly threw into her fat redneck face, classy lady that I am. Why? Well, I'm already going to hell. I don't want to get into the "sodomized with a pineapple and made to listen to ICP" section. Ok??
So, as soon as this woman alluded that she was aware of "my opinion" of her family, I let loose. Like a thirteen year old girl, via text message.
Well, in my defense, trashy woman like to yell a lot when you start telling them undeniable truths about their own menial existences. Somehow, to these woman, if they can't hear the words coming out of your mouth, it never happened, and is somehow less true. You can't yell over written word. Black and white, there is it, ready to seek and destroy.
So, I told her what I thought. I will tell you all what I think, ahem, PARKER.
Follow me here, though. You need some back story. Otherwise I just come off as the most heartless human being on the planet. I am not. So follow me on the back story.
The reason I am getting divorced, blogging, raising my children alone and ready to move on with my life is:
My husband used to beat me.
Big surprise, right? Me, with the eight billion children under the age of six, with the cutoff jean shorts, pack of Newports, crappy apartment and depressing finances...has an abusive husband?! Preposterous! But yes, it is true. And domestic violence is no laughing matter.
But fat rednecks are.
So, I told Mama BatShit was an incredible enabler she is. That she raised my husband and his siblings to believe, conclusively, that this sort of behavior (as well as the recreational use of drugs, alcohol, and questionable parenting) is somehow acceptable, excusable, some one else's fault.
Which is true. When I was seven months pregnant, BatShit and I got into an argument. I am a total bitch, particularly in arguments, if you couldn't tell. I spew venom like a damn camel spider. He knocked me unconscious, seven months pregnant with his eldest son. WHILE ON THE PHONE WITH HIS MOTHER. What did this vestige of materal wisdom do? Call the police? Call an ambulance? Admonish her son for his bad behavior and insist he seek intervention immediately? Nope. It was my fault. If I wasn't so mean to her son, if I didn't compare him to my ex's when I got angry, if I could just do what he told me to, what he wanted me to do, then he wouldn't get pushed so far as to hit me. Pregnant. With his child.
Clearly, she is a genius.
Shittiest. Mother. Ever.
So, this is why I call her an enabler. It's not mincing words. It's what she is.
I brought up a couple instances of trauma in BatShit's life that are clearly her fault. It is our job as parents to protect our children. I won't let my own husband beat or degrade me in front of our children. For their protection. I would never let harm come to them. She did. To all of her children. They are dysfunctional, poorly educated, unhappy, petty adults because of it. Mothers are supposed to protect their children, it's the basic task of parenthood, an animalistic instinct. Well, guess what, Mama Batshit? You FAILED.
And now my children suffer for it.
I congratulated her on raising a unemployed, thirty-something, mentally ill abusive loser.
I told her next time she wants to blame someone for his problems, she should look in a mirror.
And I told them all, they need to stay the fuck away from my children.
For pretty good reason.
To elaborate, here are some awesome bits of parental advice I have recieved from the BatShit clan:
If a toddler gets in to the biting phase, simply bite them back. Toddlers have no empathy. They are not mature enough to develop it. So "ouch, it hurts when mommy bites me", does not equate to "it hurts when I bite others". And besides, isn't biting a child included in the statute of child abuse?
Children can be allergic to organic foods. Don't even get me started.
BatShit himself told me of a "home remedy" for colic that included cigarette smoke, a plastic bottle and a child's forehead, and anotherone that included (yikes!) feeding a child a mixture of kerosene and sugar. His sister tried this on his nephew. Luckily, the child is still alive. So much for natural selection...
Mama BatShit feels it is appropriate to bail the father of your children out of jail with the kids in tow. She did it.
Mama BatShit feels it's appropriate to leave your children with a friend while you go on a bender, with no definite return date. On Easter. She did it.
Mama BatShit thinks if a man abuses his wife in front of the kids, it's ok. It's a problem between the parents. Her son did it, and she told state social workers this.
Am I crazy??? Or are they???
I would apologize for embarrassing any of the BatShit family, if in fact, it were my fault. Simply put, they embarrass themselves by being so damn crazy. I can, and will, slowly come out about my faults, bad decisions and struggles. Because I can identify them, proccess it, and move on. I have a little something called "perspective." Redneck former inlaws, kindly locate a dictionary, look up the word, and think about it.

This is the stupidest idea three glasses of Sutter Homes have ever given me...or is it?

This is a story of redemption, true love and second chances. The harrowing tale of a victim finding empowerment. Or, it's just me leaving my hoard of children with "The Meat" and "The Meat's Girlfriend" (my hetero life partner....nickname to be determined at a later date), while I engage in quazi-drunken desperate acts of dating, hoping to find a man I DON'T wish a terrible mac truck accident upon. So...do I sell myself now, or do I convince you that I don't really care who reads?
Or am I unabashedly honest?
Let's go with the latter.
I am way too young, have a tribe of children, a shitty apartment, a crazy ex husband and the best friends money can buy. Well, almost. I have no money. so I guess they're shitty friends?? We have put our children to bed and had three glasses of Sutter Homes White Zindfanel at this point. I am slightly intoxicated at this point, and will most likely wake up tomorrow to make my children pancakes while feeling like a bag of smashed assholes. Such is life. I will regret internet whoring myself tomorrow....possibly.

I am waaaay too sexy and outrageous for  you, internet public. I need to date. My life depends on it. Date me. I am desperate, and easily drunk. I don't want you to play father to my children. Chances are you'd suck at it anyway.

More to come when I find a date.