Mama Bear Came Out This Week... And It Wasn't Pretty

To follow up from my post yesterday (which was supposed to have nothing to do with creepy things), I just have a few comments to make. After that, I don't want to think about this again, ever. But for the sake of protecting kids, I'll probably have to.

When I use flickr, I never have photos of children that are unclothed. Every image is innocent and carefully chosen so that they cannot catch the notice of anyone creepy. In addition, I tend to keep most photos private. There is basically nothing of interest for that kind of person to see.

Thursday, I had an experience that made me mad. Not just angry. Foaming at the mouth, heart racing, crying angry. I don't recommend getting that angry. At least, not unless you have a good reason.

After I uploaded my photos and posted my blog I found a couple photos of my sweet little boy on flickr marked as someone's "favorite" and added to this person's "collection". As they were photos of my son, I was curious and felt a bit of a yellow flag raising. I followed the links to this individual, who was "collecting" photos (not his) of young boys. There were dozens and dozens. Included in this collection were photos of gay males being... intimate. While not explicit, the fact that so many "stolen" photos of young boys being in the same collection raised a red flag with me. I think I heard sirens going off in my head at this point.

I immediately saved the website address, made all my children's photos private -- that is, the ones that weren't already -- which automatically severed the connection to this individual's collection. It also severed the connection to my blog. The photos didn't show up.

I blocked him from viewing my flickr account, and I sent off a major complaint to flickr about it.

Within hours I discovered that he was shut down.

I had attempted to contact the authorities who deal with inappropriate and disgusting online crap, but they are harder to track down and make a report to than finding the holy grail. So, at this point, flickr is it. And of course, once he was shut down, there was nothing for them to find anyways.

I'm drained, emotionally. I'm exhausted. I don't want to think about this, but it's not going away.

I know that this creep, and others like him, will pop up again somewhere*. They're not only creepy and vile, they're also obsessive and compulsive. They have no sense of morality regarding this issue. They have little to no remorse or willingness to comply with normal healthy boundaries. But if we keep shutting them down, then we're doing something to protect our children.

It's something worth fighting for.

*In a previous life, I trained and worked as both a therapist for abused children and as a social worker for foster families and children. Been there, done that.

Update On Santa

So, keeping things in the spirit of the season, I remind Evan daily that Santa is watching his behavior and Ayanna is sending daily updates on how nice he is to her as well. (He's not mean to her; he just doesn't understand that she doesn't want him to carry her around all the time and cuddle her that hard. That's all.)

Also, I told him tonight after the story was read (The Night Before Christmas) that if all little boys and girls go right to sleep on the nights before Christmas, Santa will send a special dream to them. (I'm working it, friends; hey, he asked for it with the whole believing in Santa myth.)

Wouldn't you know -- he went right to sleep.

I've got all kinds of these gems up my sleeve. And I'm going to use them all. *evil laugh*

I love this season! Cheers!

And More Christmas

Whew! The wrapping is done. That is, all the wrapping except for the gift from *Santa*. I need to get different wrapping paper and a completely different style of bow. You know, to further the myth.

Speaking of which, I ran into a big problem the other week. It's one of those things that is on my mind and aggravates the heck out of me.

It's Santa.

"You'd better watch out, you'd better not cry, you'd better not shout, I'm telling you why;"

That's right. The red-suited old clown who insists on hood-winking young children into behaving. It's actually kinda creepy how "he knows if you are sleeping; he knows if you're awake; he knows if you've been bad or good..." If some old red-velvet clothed dude who sees me when I'm sleeping told me to hop on his lap and offered me candy you'd bet I'd scream and run. Which is probably why this happened:

And then when I asked him to smile, I got this:

The blur is my own fault. I was giggling to hard to hold the camera steady.

Don't misunderstand -- Evan was more than happy to go to see Santa. He asked for it; he wanted to. He couldn't imagine anything better. But when it came time, he froze. I say those are good instincts. Even though we're in public and mommy is right here, if you're uncomfortable, say so.

Afterwards, though, he was unhappy that he forgot to tell Santa what he wanted for Christmas.

Which brings me right around to the rest of this: I didn't want him to believe in Santa. From his first Christmas I've explained (because a 9-month-old understands these things) that Santa Claus is a cultural icon, representing the spirit of giving and goodwill, and fabricated around the saint who saved hundreds of children from slavery in the middle ages. In a nutshell. Of course he forgot about it because he mind cannot retain any pertinent information unless it's about one of his hobbies or how mean I am (which is a hobby in itself).

I tried to explain it all again to him this year, however the massive inpouring of cultural specificity regarding this joyous season overwhelmed him and rendered this subject taboo. And, of course, I'm mean for suggesting it.

Also, in a nutshell, he cried.

"There's no Santa?"

"Um, do you want me to lie to you?"

"What?"

"Would you rather I lie to you about Santa and tell you what you want to hear, or do you want the truth?"

"I want you to lie to me."

So that's how it is around here. I think deep down he knows there's no Santa, but for now, he'd like there to be one. And now I'm left holding the bag and supporting the myth.

He wants me to pretend? Okay, I'll pretend! We're going all out: the letter to Santa, the email from Santa, the rules and regulations about behavior and expectations that Santa has of young children, the cookies and milk (or in our case, the cupcakes and juice -- my preference), the cats being Santa's spies on behavior, etc. I'm working it.

"... so be good for goodness sake!"

Trust me, I'm using it completely for my advantage.

Here I Am

Words sit, stuck in my throat... way in the back where my breath catches and the ache builds.

So many thoughts, so many feelings.

So much to say, or not to say. (Some things are better left unsaid, but many times prove I haven't learned that lesson.)

Tired. So tired.

Dreaded anticipation waits for me, patiently. It knows I can't avoid it forever, that I will retire from my frantic busyness that I use to distract me from it. (I can be very distractible.)

Good things happening in life don't erase the bad. Or negate it. They just share the same space.

Tension still flows. And builds.

Problems erupt and are solved.

Phone calls are made.

So are tough choices.

And sometimes dumb luck happens too.

Or not.

And the anxiety that flows and weaves around each particle in this existence plays me until I am worn and shriveled.

Tired and terrified.

And I hide. Cold. Shaking. Waiting.

Wondering where did everyone go? Her and him and her and them? And me?

That's when the loneliness hits. I distract myself again. With life.

In the end -- after the tasks are done,

tears cried,

bitterness flaunted,

laughter shared,

conversations happened,

books laid down,

camera turned off,

the last things tidied/put away/fiddled with -- here I am.

"Is Your Daughter A Boy Or A Girl?"

Maybe it's time for a haircut?

Because something is making people think he's a girl.

There's obviously nothing boy-like about him.

What to do? Oh, what to do?!

(Was that too much sarcasm for a Friday morning?)

*** Update on the whole haircut thing: Heck, NO!!!

He likes his hair long, we like his hair long.

It's staying long.

Regardless of the weird comments we get.

Even from other 4 year old children.

The Sudden Quiet

It's interesting that the subject of aging has come up a bit lately... or at least I've noticed it more... that and noticing others' birthdays a bit more. It just so happens that I'm quickly approaching my 3?- 29th 24th 19th eternally youthful birthday. Or I should say, it's approaching me. I'm personally not going anywhere near that sucker. I live in the nice little town of Denial, Canada, thank-you-very-much.

It's funny I should feel this way, as I'm not doing anything to offset my age or the signs of my age. No extra time on grooming (dare say I could use it) or researching surgical procedures or even stocking up on anti-aging potions. I'm all about just not thinking about it. (I think I've recently mentioned my thoughts on lookism.) But I'm still human... I still want to not get old or oog-lay. You know what I mean: conflicted, complicated, annoying.

And I'm not even going out to get extra body/facial piercings or tattoos as an attempt to hold on to my reckless youth. I've already done all that when I turned 30 almost 30 an important benchmark in my chronological journey. Instead, I let my immature behavior lend me that quality of youthfulness that I'm looking for. I've been told I don't look or act my age, so that must be my secret of youth. Except I told you. So it's not a secret. Whoops. Anyways.

That leads me to where I am today... all this time passing, finding myself here in the now-where-I-am. It's a strange, tiring place; a place full of worries and regrets, disappointments and fear; wanting things to be perfect and giving up on dreams. I'm in my own sort of stillness right now, watching the life flow and eb around me, and not really finding a way to break into the rushing stream. I dip a toe in now and then, for the sake of my son because I don't want him to grow up to feel as out of place, disconnected, cut off as I feel.

Looking ahead to see the many many years of my life left is... daunting. Thinking about death fills me with fear, because I'm not ready to go there yet. I know nothing exists on the other side (I am a realist, after all), but the plodding years ahead of me laying out the same path over and over and over -- each day essentially the same, nothing to look forward to, no big benchmarks to mark the time. Well, it's daunting.

When did this start? Good question. I believe, after much shriveled-soul searching, that it was when I made a tiny little mistake in '02. An innocent decision and action which had consequences far beyond that which I could imagine or comprehend. That mistake which has grown in size and significance over the years, rebounding back at me again and again with greater force, battering me to the ground. And each time when it briefly recedes and I get up again in the naive hope that it's all done with me, it waits, silently taunting me in my respite until it's ready to dig it's claws in again and rip me to pieces.

I've lost my soul to it. I've lost my dreams and my hope.

I long to be inspired and inspirational, especially here in this community of people whom I've found, to my surprise, that I enjoy and who appear to reciprocate... at least y'all are coming back to visit (and that's something).

I yearn to have those sudden unexpected moments of pure joy that many many years used to spring on me from just outside of my periphery. I remember softly holding those moments, knowing if I clutch at them they would drift into mist and fly away. And I knew, I always knew, that they would come back and find me, waiting, hopeful. There were several years of hard-won independence and fulfillment that I look back on smile, knowing that that at least was good in my life.

But even those moments had their price. A price thankfully I had paid up well ahead of time on account. The years I spent crawling away from the soul-beaters and heart-breakers was worth the time I had in joy and happiness, setting my future and following my dreams; even creating new dreams. The times I had and the people I met during my time of joy are still with me. I communicate with them from afar -- afar, where it seems like I'll always be. Every moment spent with them brings me the faintest recollection of a faded glimpse of joy. And I admit, I hold myself back from even them, so as not to taint them with the bitterness that now infuses me.

Why do I write this? Sitting here, listening to the sounds of my son getting lost in another Disney classic, tears streaming down my face as I think of all that couldbeshouldbemightme... and I'm terrified for him, for me. I want more for him. I know I still get lost at times, trying to dig my way out, just afraid of getting more lost. And for my son's sake, I just need to be found, find some little bits of joy and happiness for him. I want him to have dreams as I once had, and to follow them to the ends of the earth as I once did. I want to create a sanctuary full of laughter and contentment to feed his heart and soul, not the soul-sucking heart-diminishing childhood I had.

I wish I could be more inspired and inspirational for him, creating some kind of wonderful map full of surprises and peace, leading him to create the life everyone should have a chance at. Not the one I've wasted, and in which I now sit, paralyzed, fearful, disillusioned.

I'm A Frickin' Genius

Continuing in yesterday's theme: more wonderful things in my life.

Apparently, I'm brilliant. Yes, I'm a frickin' genius. At least, that's what I surmise after much brow furrowing and banging of the head on the wall. Why else would my four-year-old son wake me up every morning with what appears to be pop quizzes for I'm Smarter Than A Fifth-Grader or university entrance exams or maybe even Mensa.

Climbing up on my bed and often snuggling in with me for a few minutes, he covers every topic: from the mundane to the abstract, from the intricate interpersonal relationships of his friends toys to the rastafarian.

"Where's Chloe?"

"Why is the sky blue, Mummy?"

"What are they doing?" Holding out his dinosaur/animal/superhero figurines to me.

"What does purple taste like?"

And this is all before I can fully open my eyes or unglue my tongue in my mouth and croak "Whaaaaa???" in the fully perspicacious way that I have about me as the sun begins to rise.

His faith in my estimable cognitive powers appears to be vast, as he doesn't wait for a fully formed answer to be completed before launching his next verbal missile.

I like to be concise and not miss any nuance of his enquiries, so I sometimes wait until he finishes his bucket list of questions before my essay-like answers. At least, that's my intention. However, if a question goes unanswered for even a millisecond, he repeats it in ever-increasing frequency and pitch. His expectations are clear: rapid-fire question and answer format shapes my every. waking. moment.

While college and university did indeed enrich my thoughts and refine my sagacity, I think his belief in the depth and breadth of my intelligence far outweighs the reality of the grey matter that rests within my skull. Because, it is true, is it not, that it's all down-hill... brain-wise... after university? Unless you're actually, you know, using your brain?

Whatever braininess I had left the pregnancy sucked right out of me. I can't tell you how many times a day I forget how old I am or what I'm supposed to get from the store or what my name is. And a new address and phone number? Forget it. I wrote it down and keep that crucial scrap of paper in my purse to refer to for the next 10 years or until the next move. Whichever comes first. (This all makes me sound really old and sad, doesn't it? Well, I'm actually not. I think. I forget. Where was I? Oh yes, questions.)

But the question that really haunts me is: what is this everlasting pop quiz preparing me for?

My house is too big, I'm too beautiful and I have too much money

See? I told you!

Lots to be happy about today.

My house is too big: Did you know that it's completely justifiable to be really bitchy on the phone to the mortgage people when you call in to find out the payment schedule and they try to verify your identity by asking for the payment schedule? And then they refuse to talk to you, because they "cannot verify" you? Yes, it is. Please, go forward with this knowledge and if you have any complaints about your... um, well, complaints... send them to me and I'll back you up. Completely justified, I tell you!

Also, on a related topic, did you know that multiple NSF charges on your chequing (or checking, for my American friends) account don't count against your credit rating? That's awesome. For me, anyways. (At least, until your account is shut down from too many. But that's NOT me. To be clear.)

I'm too beautiful: Wearing between SPF 55 and 70 is very good for me, and I haven't had a sunburn in years. Freckles are another matter, however. I've always hated them. But, as I was applying sunscreen on my son's face this morning, all up-close-and-personal, he says, "I wish I had freckles; they're so-o-o-o cute!"

I have too much money: There was change left after buying bananas this morning, and I'm teaching my son about counting money. We're getting nowhere with it, but hey, I have some to count and that's the important thing. (Of course, it's not in my chequing account where it's supposed to be, but tomato - tomahto.)

On Blogging And Stuff

I've been doing a lot of re-evaluating lately, trying to figure things out... because so much has changed from even 4 months ago. I've been even thinking about letting this blog go... shutting it down. Or just not coming back to it. (I know, that'd make me a big abandoner. Such a sucky thing to do.) But I just wasn't "feeling it" anymore.

I wonder if I'm cut out for blogging. I think a person has to really "be" there to be a good blogger. Reveal a bit about yourself, let others in. I know I've talked about stuff, put stuff out there, and probably danced too far over on the TMI line occasionally. But not lately. I realize I've been hiding behind my photos ... not saying a lot.

Not being open.

Nobody likes a book in which the author doesn't reveal a bit about him/herself in it. There's no passion in it; no art; no creativity.

But that's how I've been feeling a lot recently: nothing to say. Not sure what to say, more precisely. Which also leads to how I've been lurking a lot on my favorite blogs. Reading, thinking I need to comment, but just not feeling like it. Then moving on. Then coming back days later to say something. How lame is that?!

Things change. (How profound, eh? Geez!) But they do. And funnily enough, they change back. I'm more the same person I was years ago. Just older. Grayer. Fatter. (Yikes!) And I guess I'm happy again. I mean, I've always been a bit of a fatalist... in the sense of: things are what they are and let's just move on... with a bit of bitching and griping in there, of course. A realist, not to be confused with a pessimist: I prepare for the worst and hope for the best. (But secretly think the worst will actually happen, and being therefore prepared for it, will not be too surprised or disappointed. I mean, the optimists are the ones who set themselves up for disappointment, don't you think? Hell-ooo! Things are not always unicorns and butterflies pooping out rainbows!)

I think I went off on a tangent. Where was I?

...

Oh yes. Happy. Well, as happy as a fatalistic realist can realistically expect to be. (Notice how I didn't say hope? Oh, you did. Well... good.) Or, I should say I'm re-learning to be happy. Cuz I used to be pretty darn happy... in my own neurotic fatalistic way. Not that this has much bearing on anything important except that this blog was my own little "happy" place, a place to vent feelings (if I ever had any) or spew complaints (of which I had a lot!).

But the thing is: now I don't really have any complaints. Except I still can't have coffee because it does a number on my nerves. Or that it's raining a bit too much. Or that we moved here at the wrong time of year, so we'll have to spend the summer without a lot of people to hang out with (because we really don't know people here and I'm like, seriously, painfully shy with meeting people cuz I'm a class-A, number 1 dweeb). Or that because of this, I have to entertain my son.

Can someone slap me? Please?!

For one minute, I'm going to count my blessings. (Sorry if this makes you puke. I will probably vomit a little in my mouth as I type this, but hey, spew happens.)

1. I don't need coffee. Ha! I drink tea. Same thing. But different.

2. Rain! We have rain! And thunderstorms! Which I not-so-secretly *heart*. (There. I threw up a bit in my mouth.) Also, this area I live in tends to lean more on the drought side in the summer, so rain is good.

3. We moved. We frickin' finally moved out of hell-itself and back here to the west! (This isn't to disparage the east or the people who live there or love it. It just wasn't my home, so therefore, my own little self-imposed hell.) And this is helluva lot more suited to me. Just the air feels good and makes me happy. And there's so much more sun out here that I'm in danger of a sunburn. And my hair is blonde again. (!) And that, like, is so, like, better.

4. I have a perfectly healthy (except for the dairy intolerance) beautiful boy. He's funny and charming and tries so hard to please (when he's not all crabby from being overtired or under-entertained or over-sugared). He's a sweetie.

So I guess if I'm going to keep this blog I need to either: A) find something else to complain about, or B) find some other reason to blog. Any ideas?

Maybe next blog post title: My house is too big, I'm too beautiful and I have too much money.