I wrote this post on Friday. So maybe I got it all wrong.

Maybe today I am overwhelmed with joy at having my kids back.

But… well… I doubt it’s as simple as that.

I’m guessing I am in total hell right now.

I’m guessing that because I got home from Nashville at about later than shit last night after driving for 12 hours, I am exhausted.

I’m guessing that it was an absolute bitch to get myself and two kids up extra early this morning for the first day of school.

I’m guessing that I cussed out anyone who would listen about what a horrible idea it is to have your kids come back from a three week grandparent vacation the night before school starts.

I’m guessing that I am also very, very pissed off that I CANNOT HAVE A CIGARETTE!

So. Um. Yeah.

Everyone is probably home. We’re all back to school and back at work. I’m all “yay, you’re home! I missed you!” and secretly wanting to murder the next stupid son of a bitch that crosses my path without a cigarette and a french fry in their hands.

At least, that’s how I’m assuming today is going. What do you think?

If you're new here, you may want to subscribe to my RSS feed. Thanks for visiting!

*OR: The post that makes my step mom wish she hadn’t given this blog URL to everyone in my dad’s office. Heh. (Hi, Tina! Sorry, Dad!)

You people are a bunch of freaks.

Seriously.

Sometimes I swear I am the only woman left who has sex in the dark. At night. At bed time. In a bed.

I’m absolutely certain I am the last of the Mohicans Who Have Never Masturbated. (My apologies to the Mohicans for that totally unnecessary and inappropriate cultural reference.)

It seems that everywhere I look, from Cosmo to the blogosphere, everyone who is anyone is having all kinds of wild and crazy sex. You like it rough, you like it with batteries, you like it on uncomfortable surfaces when no one is home. You people just can’t get enough of Teh Sex.

And then there is me.

I don’t need an elaborate game of role play to get me in the mood. I prefer to avoid having to acclimate my vagina to anything that requires an owner’s manual. I limit the use of my butthole to pooping. And I sure as hell don’t expect to acquire any injuries during foreplay.

Apparently, that’s just me.

And you know what? I’m perfectly happy with my au naturale sex life.

I’m not repressed. I’m not puritanical. I’m not too sheltered to “know”. I’ve experienced The Big O more than some men, thank you very much.

And I’m tired of feeling like I have to keep up with the Nymphomaniac Stereotype that I see portrayed everywhere in the name of women reclaiming their sexuality. It seems that popular opinion has swung to the idea that if you are truly “comfortable” with yourself, you will gladly prove it to the world by sharing your fantastic escapades in the bedroom.

Something about that doesn’t sit right with me.

Whatever happened to sex being private? Whatever happened to sex between two people being fun and exciting and fulfilling all on it’s own - without the elaborate props and supplements?

It’s primal. It’s instinctive. Your bodies know how to do it without magazine articles or detailed diagrams. It can absolutely be enhanced and perfected with good communication with your partner - but it’s not rocket science, for Pete’s sake!

I think it’s time for the “prudes” to take a stand.

We should unite in our ability to copulate in the dark! We should not be ashamed of our plain old skin on skin fornication any longer! We should stand proud and loud and say “I only use my shower head to wash my hair!”

My name is Britt, and I have good old fashion, hot, steamy sex in my own bed! Whenever I am not too tired! RAWR!

Who’s with me?

————————————————————————————————-

I wonder what we will talk about tonight? I’ll give you a hint - it starts with a “P” and ends with a “ornography and whether it objectifies women.” Join us live at 9pm EST, sign up for reminders, or download earlier episodes on the Clearly, You’re Retarded show page.

While Karl and I were sitting in LaGuardia Airport for five damn hours last weekend, we found ourselves rambling on about all kinds of ridiculous crap. Including the term “Alpha Blogger” that we’ve both heard thrown around the Internet lately.

Karl came home and wrote a very thoughtful, polite, constructive post on the subject.

There will be none of that shit here. Not today.

Because today I am foaming at the mouth at the idea that my husband might have to take a pay cut in order to accept a promotion - a pay cut we cannot afford. Today I am battling between my desire to have my husband home more often and the suffocating fear that wraps around my throat when I think about going grocery shopping with a calculator. Today I am wondering how long it will be until the next time my family gets to spend two whole days together.

Today I am not just rolling my eyes or blushing self consciously when someone calls me an Internet Rock Star.

Today, the very idea pisses me off.

Let’s put it all out there, shall we? On a good day I might get over 700 unique visitors to this site. On an average day it’s more like 400. Between 500-600 people at any given time subscribe to my RSS Feed. And while I know that is more than some people get, I can also say with absolute certainty - those numbers are laughable in the grand scheme of things.

This site? Is not a big fucking deal.

Maybe - maybe - 1,000 people know that I exist because of this blog.

Woo fucking hoo. I don’t know my next door neighbors.

I get around 50 comments a day on my posts. Sometimes over 100, but that’s fairly rare. And while I read, love, appreciate and respond to each and every one of them - having 50-100 people chime in when I prattle on is not exactly indicative of me setting the world on fire or changing the social consciousness.

I run ads on this site. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, I get paid in Amazon gift certificates to write about crap like Beach Resorts. My ad revenue covers my hosting, domain and monthly coffee costs on a good month. I’ve never been approached or accepted for a paid writing gig.

I am a teeny tiny drop in a big, huge, so much bigger than me bucket.

And I am OK with that.

I poor my blood, sweat and tears into this site. I love it. It has had a meaningful impact on my life in the fact that it has connected me with some amazing people, helped me learn more about myself, and given me the space and motivation I needed to keep pushing myself forward in my life.

But the moment people start throwing words like “rock star” and “A-list” and “alpha” around, it makes a big joke out of something that means a lot to me.

I’m not some elitist celebrity prancing around with a mass of adoring fans clamoring after me. The very idea is laughable. And embarrassing, if you want to know the truth.

Because the reality is I’m just a pretty average, plain Jane woman trying to figure out how to keep all the balls up in the air. I’m a wife and a mom and I work in sales. I don’t do my laundry often enough and I wear the same earrings for 3 weeks straight sometimes because I’m too lazy to change them.

I’m probably not very different than you.

Whenever someone calls me a Rock Star, it cheapens what I am. It makes me feel like there’s some bizarre, high-flying persona that I’m supposed to being living up to. I worry that I’ve contributed to that facade in some way, and that makes me feel like a fraud.

While I appreciate the sentiment behind telling someone they are “popular”, I don’t want to be valued based on a misconception. I don’t want to be seen through a veil of smoke and mirrors.

I don’t want to be a joke.

I just want you to see me. Just me.

I’d like to think the reality is enough.

******************************************************************
How the hell did this end up coming off as the most narcissistic post ever written? JEEEZUS. Well, we might as well roll with it. You can download my radio show here.

I’ve had this post planned since March.

Today was going to be the day I told you about how badly I would miss my children.

Today I was going to describe in loving detail how I wake up with my three year old in bed with me every morning. I was going to tell you about how I was dreading not feeling those tiny little feet poking me in my ribs and that sleepy but blissful grin that I find myself nose to nose with each day.

Today I was going to talk about how I was going to miss the sound of my son making breakfast in the kitchen for his little sister. I was going to wonder aloud if anyone else was reminding him to brush his teeth and change his underwear.

Today, I am supposed to tell you about singing “You Are My Sunshine” to Emma every night exactly two times so that she can go to sleep, and how that moment just after she’s closed her eyes and just before I get up from her bed is my exactly favorite moment of each day.

I was going to put on a brave face, and tell you that although I was going to be missing them like crazy, I was going to make the most of the next six weeks and focus on all of the things I would be able to do now that Jared and I would have the house - and our whole lives, really - to ourselves. For six weeks.

You would have “ooohed” and “awwwed” and (((hugs)))’ed me and we would have all sat around musing about what a wonderful mother I was for allowing my kids this special time with their grandparents, even though it was clearly breaking my sweet sweet maternal heart to let them go.

That’s what today’s post was supposed to be.

But do we have any of that shit going on here? No. No we don’t.

Instead, a fucking tornado came and wiped out my in-law’s (aka THE KIDS’S GRANDPARENTS WHO WANTED THEM TO STAY WITH THEM FOR THE FIRST HALF OF THE SUMMER) house (aka THE PLACE WHERE MY KIDS WOULD HAVE SPENT THE FIRST HALF OF THE SUMMER STAYING).

And so, instead of getting in the car tomorrow morning to drive to Nashville and meet the grandparents and drop off the kids - I WILL BE SPENDING ALL DAMN WEEKEND HOME ALONE WITH THEM.

And instead of 6 weeks of footloose and fancy free living, complete with not one, not two, but three child free Girls Gone Wild weekends with friends - I will be making a mad dash for sitters for a free night here and there and groceries and summer childcare camps and oh yeah - not living child free AT ALL!

And did I tell you about those pokey little feet? The ones that wake me up in the middle of the night? The ones that mean I am getting up late and running around trying to get not ONE but THREE people ready every morning before we all dash out the door for the daycare/commute/work extravaganza?!?! Did I mention that? Because they are still going to be here every dang morning until FOREVER.

And instead of the occasional happy hour after work or a casual “stop at the store” or just a random WHATEVER THE HELL I WANT BECAUSE THE MOOD STRIKES ME JUST BECAUSE I CAN, I will run out of the office at 5 every day and sprint through traffic to do the daycare/dinner/bed/bath extravaganza. Every. Damn. Night.

Such is life. I know. But I have to admit I have allowed myself to fantasize about what the next six weeks would be like for months now. And I was really starting to come around to the idea of having a little Not In Charge Of The Whole Damned World Time. Just a little.

And I know that we’re lucky everyone is OK and no one wanted this and holy crap how spoiled of a brat can one woman be. I know.

But dude. SIX WEEKS. For the first time since I was 19 years old. SIX WHOLE FREAKING WEEKS.

Le sigh. Ah well. I’m sure I would have missed them too much anyway. I mean - clearly.

My neck is officially wider than my head.

And lumpy. My neck is lumpy. Because there are two golf balls sticking out of the side of it just behind each ear.

My throat is swelling shut. It’s starting to get difficult to breathe.

My ears itch. The insides of my fucking ears itch.

And do you know why? Let me tell you why.

Because when a tiny blond creeps into my bedroom in the middle of the night and says “Mommmmmy, *sniiff* mommy? *sniff* I siiiiiiiiccck *sniff*” - I pull back the covers on my side of the bed and say “come here sweetheart. Come lay right up here beside Mommy and I will wipe your snot and rub your hair and rub your chest with and allow you to spew your germs all over me if that’s what makes you feel better.”

That’s why.

And how do they repay me?

By declaring War on my house while I am comatose in my bedroom.

Complete with a minefield by the front door.

Ungrateful little bastards.

If you’ve come here for lighthearted humor, you will be seriously disappointed today.

If you’ve come here expecting logic and reason and something moderately well written… ahem. Well. Today is not your day. I’m sorry.

Because today? Today we are having a big ginormous overpriced pity party. Guest of Honor: Yours Truly.

We’re going with a theme party this year. We’re calling it, “I Suck At Life”.

If you insist on sticking around, I guess there will be fucking goody bags.

“Oh Britt, but you are awesome! Don’t say you suck! What kind of talk is that?”

Seriously, shut up. Let’s recap, just for shits and giggles, all the ways I am falling flat on my fat ass right now.

I suck at motherhood. Badly.

I never see my fucking kids and when I do I’m tired and cranky. Emma cried yesterday when I dropped her off at daycare. “I just want to stay home with YOU mommy!!!” My son failed his hearing screening like three months ago and I still haven’t been able to get him in to the doctor for a cleaning and a recheck. And he needs to go to the Dentist to get his teeth actually cleaned - but, well, I just haven’t gotten it fucking done. It’s been so damned long since either of them has had a haircut that the two of them are starting to look like werewolves. That’s not as cute as it sounds, I assure you.

Someone told me recently that “it would be good for Devin to get in some extra curricular activities.” No fucking shit. Now, if you can just please figure out how to get him to and from said activities while I am at work an hour away, that would be swell.

I swear to God I’m starting to think I am the only mother in the world who works outside of the home full time. And if I’m not? How in the HELL is everyone else managing it so well??

I know, I know. Mother of the fucking Year. I’m clearing off a space on my counter for the trophy. It should fit nicely right next to the big heaping stack of Shit That Must Be Taken Care Of.

Like.. oh… bills. Which will be fun to pay since I spent an extra… oh… $1,000+ or so in the last week completely unexpectedly (thank you very fucking much sitter quitting and car accident). Oh, and lookie there. What’s that? A reminder that I still haven’t done my taxes? Yes. I fucking KNOW, OK? Back. Off. Me. And there’s the life insurance that still needs to be switched over. And the tags that are three months expired. And on and on and…

What’s this? Oh. Yes. The birth announcement for my friend’s daughter. The friend I haven’t even spoken to since her daughter was born. Because? I am a shitty fucking friend.

While a few of my friends are going through Big Huge Mountains Of Shit of their own (shit that makes my problems PALE in comparison), I am too busy being tired and whiny to be supportive. Or keep in touch. Or offer any kind of help at all aside from the occasional “gosh, that sucks” via IM.

I can’t fucking deal right now. I just… can’t. I do NOT have PMS. I am medicated just fucking fine, thank you very much.

I just… suck.

First person who says otherwise gets punched in the face. Seriously.

That’s it. It’s official. The entire Universe has gone and lost it’s collective freaking mind.

While stumbling through my blog reads a few days ago, I encountered news about a dilemma that is apparently plaguing families of small children everywhere.

Specifically, it seems some parents are desperately trying to determine if it is “possible to have a child’s birthday party for under $200?”

(Hi Lindsay! Love your blog! Really!)

But seriously. The blogger who wrote this post was talking about a 4 year old.

I jumped to the comment section, certain I would find an ample supply of people rolling their eye balls out of their heads and breathing a sigh of relief that the idea of a Child Birthday Extravaganza was foreign to their family as well.

Um, no.

According to many of the commenters, it is quite normal to spend hundreds of dollars on a birthday party. Sometimes even thousands. Of dollars. On a child’s fucking birthday party.

“But space rental is expensive!” And no matter how hard you look, it is almost impossible to find a “child entertainer for less than $150-$200″.

Child entertainment? Space rental?

I sent a quick call out on Twitter, thinking maybe Lindsay just had a more “upscale” readership than I was used to hanging around with.

Ahem. Hell to the No. $200. $280. $400. And on up.

What the bloody hell is going on out there?

Let me tell you what a child entertainer looked like when I was growing up: your two kid brothers and a handful of cousins. If you were really lucky? Two or three of your closest classmates du jour. And it didn’t cost more than a couple of blankets tossed on your bedroom floor to get them for the entire night.

Do you not remember slumber parties and musical chairs in the church basement? Because I know your parents weren’t shelling out hundreds of dollars for you and 20 of your closest friends every year. Were they? (No, seriously - were they? Maybe my momma has some ’splainin to do.)

I remember turning off the lights and chanting “Bloody Mary… Bloody Mary.. Bloody…ACK!!” at which point someone would freak out (me) and flip on the lights just before we all collapsed in a heap of squeals on the bathroom floor.

I remember trying very hard to be “light as a feather, stiff as a board” so that my friends could levitate me with their fingertips on my temples. Sure, I had bruises and some broken furniture to explain - but how could we not try it when Shelly swore it had worked at Jenny’s house just last weekend?!?!

Total cost for these childhood memories: Zero. Nada. Zilch. (Well, OK, that coffee table might have been pricey.)

When did birthday parties stop being an excuse for cake and ice cream and staying up later than usual and start turning into a full scale Event With A Capital $$?

These are CHILDREN we’re talking about - as in non-income contributing members of the household. And, forgive me, but I rarely get dinner bought for me on my birthday - and I pay the damn mortgage on this bitch.

Am I suggesting that a child’s worth (or anyone’s, for that matter) should be measured by their ability to produce an income? Of course not. But I do think that society as a whole is losing it’s grip on reality when it comes to a child’s place in a family.

It used to be that people had babies and they were brought up into a family. Now, you’d swear to freaking Pete that entire families were molded out of thin air around the all-important offspring like some kind of living, breathing shrine to Childhood.

And at what cost?

As a nation we’re in debt up to our assholes. We certainly don’t seem to be raising a more grateful or enlightened generation. I don’t think anyone would profess to believe that spending $200+ on little Suzie’s birthday is going to better equip her to handle and/or positively impact the world when she gets out into it on her own.

So what in God’s name are we doing??

I mean, besides robbing our children of the appreciation of life’s simple pleasures.

According to many of the commenters on the original Suburban Turmoil post, the birthday party budget is growing exponentially in an attempt to Keep Up With The Joneses. Who the fuck are these Jones people and how do we knock some sense into them? It seems they are taking a lot of heat for the actions of a whole bunch of grown ups.

Surely we have evolved enough that we don’t base our financial and parenting decisions on What Everyone Else Is Doing. I mean, we all learned our lesson from that whole Mass Exodus Off The Bridge experiment. Didn’t we?

The thing is, I know some of the women who have spent hundreds of dollars on birthday parties and what not. They are not frivolous or superficial. They are not mindless sheeple - especially when it comes to their children. They are, in large part, smart women who typically ooze common sense.

So what the hell gives here?

Because this honestly and truly makes absolutely no kind of sense, common or otherwise. Not to me, and not - I would venture to guess - to your mothers or grandmothers.

What about you? How much is too much for a child Birthday Party?

Dear Dumb Ass,

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve been running my ass off for the last several weeks.

I’ve driven hundreds of fucking miles. I’ve circled the airport terminal more times than I care to count. I’ve washed sheets and remade guest beds. I’ve planned outings and excursions and meals from a pantry that hasn’t been stocked in 3 weeks. I’ve been to the beach for something like 96 hours. I’ve spent another 57 or so at one amusement park or another.

Oh. And? I’ve been working full time.

My days have consisted of getting up, going to work, rushing home to entertain, collapsing into bed, and getting up the next morning to do the whole fucking thing over again.

Except on weekends. On those special days I have gotten up, dashed off to the most recent tourist attraction, and entertained until my feet cried and I eventually fell asleep.

Oh. And? Gotten up extra early two Saturdays to keep an appointment that you made, but couldn’t be bothered to get your happy fucking ass home in time for.

As absolutely ecstatic as I am to have been able to spend this time with family and friends, here’s a news flash for you: I’m tired. Fucking exhausted. I spend the afternoons and evenings fantasizing about some much needed and too long postponed down time.

I’m hanging on by my toe nails here, and feeling guilty as hell because I don’t feel like I have enough to give.

So excuse the fuck out of me if you’re offhanded remark that I haven’t “talked to you much” lately irked me, just a tad. And I am so, so terribly sorry that your observation that I don’t seem like I “really want to” spend time with your parents pushed me over the damned edge.

Hello? Was that not me that just spent alllll weekend between tourist destinations? Was that not me that got the guest room ready one more fucking time and restocked towels on more fucking time and offered to drive to the airport one more fucking time in preparation of their arrival? Was that not me that was home and making plans for dinner long before you brought your happy oblivious ass home from work?

Don’t you fucking dare act like I haven’t been just as much (if not more, fuck you very much) involved with their visit. That was ME that encouraged them to stay for 12 days instead of 6 - remember? That was ME that assured them they were ALWAYS welcome in our home, no matter how much company we’d had before. And it was ME who gave them lists and lists and lists of things that they could do.

And now you’re going to play the “see, this is why I don’t talk about my feelings” card?

PuhLEEEEEZE.

Play that passive aggressive manipulation game on someone who hasn’t seen your ability to turn a cold shoulder to my responses. Maybe they will believe that you’re just so damned sensitive, you simply can’t stand the idea of anything you doing upsetting me.

You don’t “talk about your feelings” because you’re afraid of your big bad wife? You’re afraid you’ll have to “deal with [me] feeling inadequate”? Oh boo fucking hoo. Seriously. I have neither the time nor the energy to deal with that bullshit right now.

And do you know WHY?

Because for the next 6 days, I will be spending time with our family.

Asshole.

Signed,

Your Wife

PS: You should seriously consider investing in a day planner. And schedule the last three days of the month or so that your wife will be hormonally incapable of dealing with your shit. FYI.

Let me preface this by saying that this is not a rallying cry for you to defend me. I whole heartedly appreciate your tendency to do so when the situation warrants it, but this is not one of those moments.

I’d honestly like to hear your opinion. Give it to me straight. I can take it.*

Am I selfishly exploiting my children for my own personal gain?

I’m not talking about the fact that I make them dance on the street corner for quarters. Clearly, that’s just asking them to earn their keep, and no sane person would have a problem with that.

No, I am referring more specifically to the fact that I put pictures of my kids on this here blog. And I don’t use privacy bars or anonymous pseudonyms. My name is Britt, my husband is Jared, our kids are Devin and Emma. And I make no secret about that (mainly because I don’t have the attention span to remember what acronym and nickname I’ve assigned to each of them).

I know there is a fragment of the World of Personal Bloggers that (ironically) clings to the idea of privacy, and views posting pictures of a child online as a violation of that privacy. I also realize that there are some people who see it less from a privacy standpoint and more as a security threat (Oh NOES! the Internetz wants to steal your babies!).

I can understand that. Really. I don’t see NOT posting your picture - or pictures of your children - as a sign of anything ominous or shameful or negative in any way. If the idea of putting real life photos up on your blog makes you squeamish… then don’t. I make no judgments about you based on that. (Unless you’re mean. Then I will tell everyone it’s because you’re moley and ugly and ashamed of your hideous back acne. Because I am mature.)

But does it make you think less of me when I occasionally include pictures of my kids here?

Do you look at a post that is intended to be just another example of me sharing the very real details of my life with you, and see a mother who has no regard for the interests of her children?

Do you see a blog with kid pictures and ads and categorize the blogger as “whoring” or “exploiting” her children?

Honestly, I’d like to know.

I (obviously) don’t think there’s anything wrong with including pictures on your blog if it makes sense to do so. And here? Can you really imagine me trying to pretend that I’m letting you into my life without sharing with you the most important people in that life?

And yes, that’s what I’m doing - letting you into my life.

I realize that not everyone can do that. I understand that some people have different kinds of boundaries than I do. I can even accept that for some people they cannot begin to understand what would motivate me to be so forthcoming about my life. The “not understanding” I get.

But I have to be honest and tell you that it pisses me off when people assume that there is something wrong with me because I don’t need the buffer of privacy. That’s not “not understanding” - that’s putting harsh judgments on someone simply because they are different from you. That’s not anymore OK than it would be for me to assume that the reason some people are less “let it all hang out” is because they are ashamed of themselves - or whatever.

(And let me be clear - that is NOT what I’m saying. I’m saying if it’s OK for you to be all private because that’s what you’re comfortable with, then it’s just as OK for me to be less private if that falls within MY comfort zone.)

Are you following me? Has this dissolved into a completely incoherent rambling mess where some of my hot buttons and insecurities are peeking through?

Forgive me. Let’s break it down to the simplest terms.

What I want to know is:

• How do you feel in general about pictures of people on YOUR blog?




• Does that change if we’re talking about kids?




• How do you feel about pictures of people/kids on OTHER PEOPLE’S blog?




• What assumptions do you make about a blogger based on whether or not they share pictures?




• Do any of those opinions change somehow if advertising is thrown into the mix?

Alright, come on. Discuss. Don’t be scared. What are your thoughts?

*We all know this is a lie. I handle criticism as well as a diabetic handles chocolate covered twinkies. But one bite won’t kill me, right?

Who doesn’t love a post about Abortion?

Oh no, get back here. Sit down. We need to talk. If you can listen to me rant about my hair and the trials of making guacamole, you can hang in here for a discussion on What Is Wrong With The “Pro Life” Movement.

First, some background information (ie, where the hell this is coming from).

I read a post a while back about a blogger who had an abortion. This was a decision she’d made a long, long time ago and she has since become a wife, mother, etc. etc. etc. She decided to post about it because of a post that she had read. She came out and said “I had an abortion, this was why, and this is how I feel about it”.

She had no sooner hit publish when the shit hit the fan. To say she was attacked would be an understatement. She was beat over the head with the fact that she had “Killed a baby!” and she could no longer be the kind of person that the child she has now could “ever look up to!” She was told repeatedly that she deserved no pity, no compassion, and nothing but scorn. She’d made her bed, and now she’d have to lie in it.

(I’m not linking to the post or the blogger because, quite frankly, if you don’t already read her I have no interest in sending over any more haters.)

Some more background information (ie, what you should know before we go any further):

I do not believe Abortion is a Choice. It’s a baby, a life, and I don’t think any of us has the right to take a life away.

I also don’t believe Abortion should be illegal - and I vote according to that belief.

My stance on the legalization of abortion has less to do with my views on whether or not it is wrong and more to do with the reality of the social climate here in this country. Namely: making abortion illegal would do little more than further abandon a lot of poor, desperate women and children who already feel like they have nowhere to turn to. We are not, at this time, a society that is fit to care for unwanted babies and the women who find themselves pregnant with them.

And the “Pro Life” movement is a perfect example of that.

With a flagship name like “Pro Life”, you would envision a cause that is about hope and love and support. You would think this was a rallying cry for loving thy neighbor and cherishing each and every one of God’s creations. In a world that made sense, the term “pro life” would be synonymous with expressions like “sanctity” and “compassion” and “precious”.

But, no.

While there is a small slice of the Pro Life movement that wisely funnels their time, money and efforts into Adoption Services, counseling for pregnant women and healing for women who have gone through an abortion - the bigger, louder chunk is a nasty, nasty thing.

It is about black and white. Right and wrong. Condemnation and arrogance.

It is about waving signs and twisted, hateful faces screaming at would be “baby killers” as they shuffle into clinics.

It is about atrocious, deadly acts of violence against doctors and nurses who perform a medical service.

And (most appalling) it is about ripping to shreds the women that need understanding and compassion the most.

What astounded me the most about the attacks on this blogger was not the insistence that abortion was wrong. What I found most upsetting was the need to berate her for a decision that cannot, at this point, be unmade. I don’t care what your stance on abortion is, once it’s been done - it’s done. And no one should understand better than a “pro lifer” that what you’re left with is a woman who is probably steeped in her own regrets and pain.

And this is who you should be attacking? This is how you demonstrate the sanctity of life? By withholding forgiveness and compassion from the person that is left living?

It just makes no sense to me. I can understand the picketing more than I can understand the hate that is lobbed at women who admit to having had abortions. At least the picketers can delude themselves into thinking they might be able to prevent something from happening.

But once it’s done… it’s done. At that point, isn’t the best thing you can do… the right thing for us to do… to try to help those women heal?

And maybe, just maybe, turn our attention to what causes a woman to head to that clinic in the first place?

Instead of screaming about how “real” a baby is and at what point a fetus is “viable” and “not viable”, wouldn’t it make more sense to roll up our sleeves and figure out why these women find themselves so desperate that they honestly and truly feel like abortion is the only way out? Would the supposed “pro lifers” make more headway if they shed a hopeful light on a few more exit plans?

But, no. Instead they turn to fear and shame and hate as weapons of progress. They hope to bully the mind into changing and the heart into guilt ridden repentance. They wave a banner of Christian Righteousness with the assurance that their hatred will somehow be validated.

And then they wonder why no one wants to listen.

I have yet to meet a woman who can talk about her abortion without crying, or hanging her head. She didn’t do it because she didn’t think it was “no big deal”. She didn’t do it because it was “just a bunch of cells anyway”.

She did it because she felt like she had to.

She will talk to you about the nights that she wonders what she could have done differently. She might share with you the questions she has about what that baby would have been like, what she would have been like if she had given birth. If you’re lucky, you will hear her talk about the fear and the hopelessness and the panic that she wrestled with before making that decision.

And you will know, for her, that it wasn’t really a choice.

And if you really, really want to make a difference? You will stop fighting so hard against the rights of this woman or that one, and start figuring out ways to give those women - and their babies - a real chance, by giving them a REAL choice.