New Angels

I have not been able to write anything about last Friday's horrible tragic events in Newtown, CT. for many reasons. When I first heard about a young man walking into an elementary school and shooting a bunch of people, I just couldn't believe it. I followed the link that had been e-popped around our office at about 9:30 AM. Sure enough, there was CNN's "Breaking news" story- in the very beginnings of its own inevitable sisyphusian roll. I did not read too much, as I was immediately too shocked and upset to focus on what I knew I would hear and read more about later. I had too much work to get done, and too many other things to do that day. Friday was a super busy day for me, and I just couldn't stop mid-whirlwind or I would lose all momentum. And I needed my momentum. My BFF and I were taking our kids up to Colorado the next day, to ride on the Polar Express. Tickets we had gotten a year ago, and a trip we were supposed to have taken last year- right when my Grandmother died. The Durango and Silverton Narrow Gauge Rail puts on the Polar Express extravaganza, and it really is magical. They were kind enough last year, to hold and honour our reservation for this year. Nothing was stopping me from making this trip happen for us all, and I had alot to get through on Friday. During the course of the day, I heard more and more soundbites of the events in CT and some more details. Eventually, I had heard enough to make me physically ill and I decided right then that I was not going to turn on any TV news, or go and read further gruesome details online. I knew all I needed to know about what happened and believe me, my own brain was filling in enough of the details on its own. By Friday evening, I was so devastated, I was shaking and ill and could not bring myself to go to sleep. All I could think about was the nightly routine. My nightly routine with my own kids, and the nightly routine of all the mommies on that night, in Connecticut. My brain started to voice (as it does so often these days) what would eventually become this post. I have not been anywhere near able to organize any of this inner monologue until today, when I began furiously jotting down notes as the thoughts started coming in full sentences. I got more terrible news this morning that a good friend from college has just passed away, this very morning, from complications from HIV induced pneumonia. Spence was the kind of person who was like a lighthouse. He was a bright focus, around which everyone wanted to gravitate. He was intelligent, funny, wry, and in your face. And he never gave up fighting his illness. He was a hero. Hearing of his death has wrenched me out of my stupor, to start writing all the stuff that's been floating around up there in the old grey matter for the past few days. This is for you, dear Spencer- my new protecting angel.
This is for all 26 of the angels newly created on Friday, December 14 2012 in Newtown, Connecticut.  As the media continues to saturate the world with Adam Lanza's name, I wish, tonight, to focus on the children and, because I'm the mother of two 6 year old kids, I cannot help but to be thinking about the moms. As I said, I have not read too much about this, or watched any news reports. What I have read, and what I have heard, and what I know are how this story has unfolded in my psyche. I cannot stop thinking about the kids. Were any of them conceived through IVF or other forms of ART? After years of struggling through infertility, did their parents finally welcome their precious and so wanted little ones into the world, only to lose them just a few short years later? Were any of them adopted? Were any of them a twin? Were any of them Jewish, in the midst of celebrating Chanukkah? How many of them played in bubbly filled bathtubs the night before? How many of them took showers that morning with either of their parents? Had any of them just passed a life milestone? Just lost a tooth? Just started to sleep at night without a pull-up? Just started to read, write, add, subtract? Whose snack day was it? Did that child bring in a favorite snuggly animal from their bed, or a model they built with their dad, or a family picture? Were any of them wearing a beloved hand-me-down sweater, or handmade one? Did any one of  them just learn how to tie their shoes, ride a bike, swim? Had any of them just gotten over a cold? Sore throat? How many of those kids had brought their own lunches, and who was going to buy a lunch that day? Who among them was dropped off from their car in the drop-off lanes, parents in a rush to get on with their own days? Who was walked into their classroom by one or more parents, maybe having arrived a bit late to school? Who had a tearful or anxious separation from their parent(s) that morning for one reason or another? Had any of them just had a fight with a parent, a sibling, a friend? How many of their parents had had a rough or rushed morning routine and become exasperated with their child for whatever reason? Who had forgotten to say "I love you" that morning?
And what of the morning routine in the classrooms? Had the school just said the Pledge of Allegiance? Were the lunch counts being collected? Were the kids putting their folders away, having snack, sitting in circle, having free choice, starting a lesson?
Were there special Holiday events happening over the weekend that families had had planned (like I had)? How many Christmas cards had already been sent out with complete family pictures? How many of the children killed were only children, without brothers or sisters for their parents to re focus on?
How did the killings themselves go down? Did he simply walk into the room and start shooting at random like a turkey shoot? Were the kids running around the room screaming? Or did (as I've heard) the teacher shove all the kids into a corner and stand in front of them, trying to shield them before they were all shot in the same pile- more like fish in a barrel? How terrified were those children? Did they cry for their mommies? Did they try to run? One of the many many thoughts that plagues me is that they all died away from the arms of their mothers. They died in fear and terror and violence, apart from their families. I have heard that when someone dies suddenly, in a traumatic situation, their soul doesn't know its body has died, and it gets "stuck." These spirits stick around for a while, until they either realize it's time to move on, or they are helped to cross over. I wonder if any of these kids are hanging around their families? I hope none of them is stuck. I'd like to believe they were immediately made into angels, and the only "sticking around" they're doing is to wrap their new wings around their mothers. Because each of those mothers was denied the chance to wrap her arms around her little one as they died. It's common to say that "losing a child is the worst thing for a parent." Children, after they've grown, are supposed to bury their parents- not the other way around. I think it's even worse for mothers to lose their children. That's not to say that it isn't any less difficult for the dads, the grandparents, the sisters and brothers, aunts and uncles, etc. But for a mother to lose her child- especially at the age of 6 or 7, is like having a large portion of your heart ripped from your body. I can't help but think of that horrible speech given by Hannibal Lecter in The Silence of the Lambs when he talks about amputees feeling phantom pain long after a limb has been removed. And for a  mother, where does that pain reside? In her heart. By the time your babies are 6 or 7, you've had enough time to get to really know them. You've had time to know and witness the development of their personalities, their likes and dislikes, their predispositions, their tempers, their loves. They have grown intellectually to a point where reason and logic are beginning to allow them to formulate their own ideas about the world, and to react to situations in ways that border adult deductive reasoning. Having them yanked from the world at this age, is like chopping down a tree right when it begins to flower. It's like removing a too large section from an orange- disrupting its delicate and precarious balance as a whole, perfectly formed sphere. A mother's heart is like that orange. It's a delicately balanced whole. Removing too large a portion will surely endanger its precarious balance. Each of the mothers of the Newtown children had too large a portion of their hearts ripped from them when their children were killed. And my heart, some 2000 miles away, is in twisted pain just thinking about this. Because those children could just as easily have been my own.
I keep saying, "I cannot even imagine." But I can. That Friday night must have been a night from hell for those families. Only earlier that very morning, all of those children had been in their own beds. How many of them had made their beds that morning? How many of them had left their rooms in a mess- laundry on the floor, beds unmade, toys strewn about? How many of them had left things to do for that evening after they came home from school? Who would clean all of this up, and how? How were those mothers dealing with the night-time routine without their children? How were they going to bed, while their children's beds were empty? How were they trying to sleep, or weeping, or hysterical, or tranquilized? Knowing their children weren't  there. In their own warm beds. With their snuggly soft stuffed animals, or pets? Instead, they were all in body bags in a large freezer at the Medical Examiners office. All 20 of them. I am reminded of the line from Othello, "The tragic loading of this bed"... the tragic loading of that freezer.
I know more than most about State Medical Examiner's labs. I worked on the design of ours for almost two years. I learned more than you'd ever want to know about autopsies, body freezers, specimen storage, drain systems, poured epoxy floors in a light enough color to contrast blood for efficiency of cleaning. And family rooms. I had to design the two rooms in which families would come to view and/or identify the bodies of their loved ones, through a large window. My task was to make these rooms as comforting and calming as possible. All I could think about the entire time I worked on that project was, "what about children?" How can a mother sit in that room, and view her child's body through a pane of glass and not get to hold and cradle them in her arms? It haunted me and has ever since. I know that the Medical Examiner in CT didn't finish with the bodies until Sunday. I also know that none of the families was allowed to see their children until after they had been examined. Two, three days? I know, too, that each child had been hit from between 3 to 11 times with bullets. Think of how small a 6 year old is. Then think of the damage to a human body one single bullet is capable of inflicting. Then think of 11 bullets. In a 6 year old. It's hard to fathom. And it's too disturbing for anyone to contemplate. But think of the Medical Examiner. PTSD, anyone?
And what of the children who weren't at school on Friday for some reason? Doctor's appointment? Dentist? Early Holiday vacation? Sick? Or of the teacher who had just gone on maternity leave the week previous? Survivor's guilt, anyone? Or the stories that are coming out about heroism? The substitute teacher who hid her kids in cupboards and closets, and told the shooter when he came in that her kids were in the gym, only to then be shot herself? Or the Principal who went out into the hallway to secure the situation, only to be gunned down?
I am the mother of 6 year old (6 next week) twins who are in kindergarten, in different classes. Their school is very like Sandy Hook. Small, rural, close-knit community. When I dropped off the kids this morning, I encountered locked classroom doors. When we were let in, I quietly asked if this was the new policy for safety. Alex's teacher looked up at me, over his glasses in a single expression that said simultaneously, "Yes."  "Doesn't it suck?"  "I'm sorry" and "What has the world come to?" And tears instantly burst into my eyes. I thanked him. I walked out to my car, and my Architect brain took over, planning the newly secured classroom of the future:

• Main classroom doors with automatic closers and locks, panic push bars on the classroom side for emergency exit only.

• Secondary exits from each room, whose view is shielded both visually and physically from the primary entrance. This exit preferably goes to the outside of the building or to a protected safety corridor.

• Panic buttons in every classroom which, when activated, set off an alarm system that immediately notifies the police, fire, paramedics, and simultaneously closes and locks all doors from the outside, activates the public address system, and sends a text or voicemail message to every parents' cell phone to be on alert and meet at a pre-designated place for further information.

• Bullet-proof, wired safety glass at all windows and doors.

• Escape and emergency routines and drills in all classes carried out on a regular basis.

• Rotating parent or police patrols of school grounds.

• Lockable cabinets in classrooms with tazers, pepper spray, emergency cell phone, emergency medical kits, etc.

It's time to start taking protecting our schools seriously.
I heard one of the detectives, a 30 plus year veteran, talking about this tragedy. He was saying that the awful truth is that right now, there is someone else out there planning something else much worse. I believe this to be true. The media coverage of Adam Lanza only helps to propagate the celebrity of his heinous acts to someone like this. There has been alot of discussion about mental illness in the past few days. About Asperghers and Autism and Explosive mental disorders, and gun control. There was a very excellent article written by Liza Long and published on the Huffington Post website, entitled "I am Adam Lanza's Mother." here's a link: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/12/16/i-am-adam-lanzas-mother-mental-illness-conversation_n_2311009.html
In it, she describes the explosive and dangerous temperament of her own son, suffering from similar mental disorders to Adam Lanza. She describes having to take away and lock up all the knives in her house, after her son became so violent and threatening she got seriously worried he would harm her, himself, his siblings. She describes the lack of systematic assistance and treatment other than prison for these mentally ill people. She describes being so concerned for her son's own safety as well as hers, that she seeks having him committed. I heard today, that Adam Lanza's mother was also contemplating this very thing. Which is, theoretically, what may have set him off. My question is: If she knew he was so sick and prone to explosive outbursts, or potentially dangerous, why ON EARTH did she keep guns in the same house where she and HE were residing? And why IN THE WORLD were these guns not locked up tight? It may seem pointless to speculate on why or how after the tragic events, but I also have to question the ready availability of very violent video games. I have no idea if Adam Lanza was a "gamer," but I do know that these games simulate unbelievable scenarios of gun play, violence, shooting, and carnage. It's my opinion that kids who play these games on a consistent basis become de-sensitized to the reality of this level of violence. To them, these scenes just aren't real. And when you add mental illness into this cocktail, that separation from reality can become deadly. The shooting and death and bloodshed before them, becomes something from one of their games- where they are the hero and the death around them simply isn't real. Except that it was real. I can only think that the moment before Adam Lanza aimed the gun at himself and pulled the trigger, he had some kind of momentary lucidity in which he must have realized the shock of what he'd just done WAS real and could only then take his own life. I think these games need better and more closely guarded control.
The hope, if any, I can render from this horrible tragedy, is this: that there are now 26 new angels out there watching over us. And their names are:

 - Charlotte Bacon, age 6
- Daniel Barden, age 7
 - Rachel Davino, age 39
 - Olivia Engel, age 6
 - Josephine Gay, age 7
- Ana M. Marquez-Greene, age 6
 - Dylan Hockley, age 6
 - Dawn Hochsprung, age 47
 - Madeleine F. Hsu, age 6
 - Catherine V. Hubbard, age 6
- Chase Kowalski, age 7
- Jesse Lewis, age 6
 - James Mattioli , age 6
 - Grace McDonnell, age 7
 - Anne Marie Murphy, age 52
- Emilie Parker, age 6
 - Jack Pinto, age 6
 - Noah Pozner, age 6
 - Caroline Previdi, age 6
 - Jessica Rekos, age 6
 - Avielle Richman, age 6
- Lauren Rousseau, age 40
 - Mary Sherlach, age 56
 - Victoria Soto, age 27
 - Benjamin Wheeler, age 6
- Allison N. Wyatt, age 6
And Spencer Cox, age 44

Back Story

I must tell a bit of back story. Back story, in my opinion, is vital to knowing and understanding the entire picture. And I do have alot of back story to tell. I will be interjecting it from time to time, as you may have noticed with some previous posts (My story- parts 1 and 2) both being pregnancy related back stories. I also plan to infill with things from my childhood and how I was raised. If nothing else, it makes for an interesting read- and you'll get to know me so well. Don't think that this means you can just come over and put your feet up on my coffee table though. I do have some boundaries. Tonight's back story is my birth. My mother loved to tell the story of my birth, especially to embarrass my Dad.

Chicago, July 1968. Saturday.  I don’t know the exact reason, but my mother was going in to the hospital to be induced the next day. The hospital was Michael Reese, on the south side of the city. My mother, my father, my aunt, my grandmother and grandfather and both of my brothers had been born there. Because of the recent turmoil in the city, (Race riots, Democratic National convention, forthcoming elections, war protests, etc.) Chicago was a powder keg. There were National Guard soldiers posted all over the city, slinging rifles and machine guns. Imagine my mother, very sheltered, suburban housewife, VERY pregnant, very independent, driving herself from the very sheltered northern suburbs into the south side of the city, with a small suitcase beside her. It’s already an interesting scene. Now imagine that she pulls into the hospital parking lot, only to be stopped by two National Guard soldiers with their machine guns at the ready, poking their noses into the family wood-sided station wagon to see what appears to be a pregnant woman, with a small suitcase. I doubt either of these well-intentioned gentlemen was married, or the scene would have appeared entirely differently from how they perceived it. They made her get out of the car and PROVE that she was actually pregnant, and NOT, in fact, hiding a bomb under her dress. Now my mom, although she was an actress, was actually surprisingly shy. I bet she just loved this. (Not.) Well, obviously, the two guards were convinced, and probably extraordinarily embarrassed. Mom checked in, and presumably went right to sleep. A bit of back story here: in 1968, they were still using twilight sleep medications during many births. Twilight sleep is a basic term for any combination of medications that cause laboring moms to retain no memory of pain. It was not a pain blocker in any way, rather, a form of medicinally imposed amnesia. Women who were given twilight sleep often thought that they were the “modern” women who didn’t have to experience the pain, mess and discomfort of childbirth. Paradoxically, they actually DID experience all of these things- they just had no memory of it.  Consequently, these women often experienced side effects from the medications which caused their inhibitions to also be blocked. They were “wild” in their labors, kicking and screaming, and sometimes doing harm to themselves or to their helpers. More often than not, they had to be strapped to their beds. Straps lined with lamb’s wool was the norm, so as not to leave obvious bruising and alarm husbands. Sadly, these husbands were not allowed into birthing rooms as it was considered “inappropriate”, not to mention most husbands would probably have yanked their wives right out of there upon witnessing these barbaric practices. But this was how childbirth had gone in this country for a long time- beginning around the turn of the century, when these combinations of drugs were first used and found to be the “modern woman’s” alternative to painful home births. Birth moved from homes and away from midwives, into hospitals with doctors and nurses carefully administering pain-killing medications, and maintaining (the illusion of) completely sterile environments. Usually, these drugs were any combination of pain killers and amnesiacs. Commonly, the cocktail was a mixture of morphine and a drug called scopolamine. Morphine acted as a very strong analgesic, or pain reliever, and is actually (surprisingly) derived from poppies (ala opium.) Scopolamine is a drug that inhibits certain neuro transmitters; thus the loss of memory portion, and is derived from a plant called Deadly Nightshade (which can be poisonous.) Charming combination, don’t you think? Poison and Opium. Good times.  Both of my brothers had been born while my mother was in twilight sleep, and she fully intended to do the same with me. To her and everyone else’s surprise, I had other plans. I was very small (weighed in at 5lbs 3oz.), and I was also mom’s third baby. When she was given an enema very early the next morning, she went right into active labor. She bypassed first stage labor, and went immediately into active dilation. It took her a total of 3 hours to fully dilate, during which time (reason unknown) no drugs were administered. When it came time to push, she asked for Trilline- an inhaled narcotic pain blocker. I came literally flying out of her so fast, presumably with her very first push, that she said they almost didn’t catch me and I nearly went flying off of the delivery table. The attending OB/GYN wrote in my baby book himself that they only used 65cents worth of Trilline on my mom- barely enough for a single breath, which I’m sure she didn’t even get in all the excitement. Like it or not Mom, I was born au-natural! I love that part of the story. A bit more back story: Mom and Dad had already had two boys. In 1968, they were not doing routine ultrasounds (or even had the technology to do them at all?) to foretell a baby’s sex. Mom spent her entire pregnancy with me hoping for a girl, and my Dad too. When I was born, the doctor (who was also a family friend and knew of this wish by both of my parents), decided to play a practical joke on my Dad; He wrapped me in a towel right away (without so much as a sponge-off) and brought me out of the delivery room into the “Dad’s waiting room” and presented me, all bloody and covered with vernix, genitals first, to my shocked father and declared, “It’s another boy!” I guess my Dad was so shocked that he didn’t even notice the lack of a penis and just sort of went, “uuhhh….ooohhhhh” I’m not sure how long it did take him before he knew he had a daughter, but I can only assume it wasn’t too long.

Twilight sleep- we've come a long way, baby.

Monster

I have been delinquent in my posts... here's why: I am completely overwhelmingly intimidated by the ACTUAL writing of my story. I know how that sounds. Especially because the whole impetus behind this blog, was to format a way to write out my story- my entire story. Writing out my whole story is a daunting task, to say the least. I've gotten to the point where I am ready and willing to begin attacking the heart of it- starting with when Pete and I began dating and got married. But am I actually able? I had hoped to rely on notes and files and date books, and journals to help me with this. I pulled out all this stuff tonight, in an attempt to begin to organize it and start writing about our very first attempts to get pregnant. And then I saw it all sitting on the coffee table in front of me. Here's how it looked:

None of it is in any kind of order. It's a completely chaotic pile. Not to mention an emotional one. I'll attack it a bit at a time. First, I will try to put it all into chronological order. Then I'll separate the medical files from my own research and other writing. The date books already are in order, so I will try to match the files with events recorded in the date books. Then I'll begin writing.
Spaulding Gray made a great film of one of his best monologues called Monster in a Box. If you're unfamiliar with it, see it. He was brilliant. The premise, and hence the title, address his difficulty in getting started writing his novel- which was an autobiographical story about his mother and her suicide. He did eventually write it (Impossible Vacation) but not without many adventures and mishaps and intimidation from the "monster" of paper. I can identify. I'm standing on a precipice.
I will call my files the Monster.
This past weekend was very emotional. It was the one year anniversary of my Grandmother's death, the first night of Chanukah, Sophie's first public Irish dance performance. One really great thing befell me on Friday- I discovered that we now have a Lush store! Albuquerque has "arrived!" If you haven't discovered the pleasures of Lush products, I implore you to RUN to your nearest location, or find them on the web and order one thing. Doesn't matter which one- they are all equally incredible. Beautiful, natural products never tested on animals, proceeds of sales donated to various charities, products so pure and natural they are all actually edible. Scrum-dilly-ishous. Lush saved my butt this weekend. I stocked up. I bought a bath melt that I have previously ordered and received melted. The sales clerk said to me, "it will never be melted again." This, after I literally jumped and ran and did a happy dance ALL THE WAY AROUND THE STORE. I kid you not. They must have thought there was genuinely something wrong with me. The bath melt was everything I knew it would be. And it soothed my soul. Here are some gratuitous pictures of the products, in our very own Lush store:

 
Mmmm... just look at all those lovely candy scented re-usable bubble wands, fizzy-lifting bath water tinting bath bombs, and fair trade shampoos made with honey (which I used on the kids' hair today).
Lush-us.
My advice for facing your monsters? Indulge in some products from Lush. Soak. Rinse. Repeat.

Deal

Forgive me, dear readers, if tonight's post sounds a bit terse. But, well, I'm kinda miffed. I'm kinda all kinds of negative today- so again, please forgive and bear with me. I have had two separate family members basically negate all of my emotions about my story, and tell me that I just need to "deal."  One of them who said that they "can't understand why I'm worrying about the past when I have two perfect, beautiful children," the other who told me that "I really need to just get over it." Oh, really? Do I?  Without intent of offending,  Here's what pisses me off about this: I am simply trying to write my story, even if it's in bits and snatches. I cannot very well write my story with any kind of honesty, without including the emotional element, now can I? And it really isn't a matter of "getting over it." It's a very important part of my life and who I am. I am FAR from ungrateful for the children I have- in fact, I'm probably MORE grateful for them because of what I went through to have them. "Getting over it" means what, exactly? That I should just forget about this journey, or diminish its impact and importance because - why? Because that journey wasn't important? Because it was in the past? Because it doesn't matter now that I have my children? Well, I'm sorry, but- um, no. That journey and story is vital. It is vital because it is how they came into this world, and I want them to know and appreciate how they came to be. It is vital because it shaped who I am as their mother. It is vital, because it has altered who I am as a woman. And it is vital because, to negate it or forget it, is to deny it. To deny it is to turn my back on it. Which I am unable and unwilling to do. Does this make me weak? stagnant? stuck in the past? I don't think so.
I want to write my story, in an attempt to better rationalize my own feelings about, as well as to share the amazing journey with others who can identify and/ or find some hope from it. And I want my children to know their whole story. It's my way of preserving the story of our family. It's my legacy to them. My mom never told me a whole lot about her family- and for this, I am saddened. I wish I knew more about my heritage than I do. I want to leave my kids with the full knowledge of how they came to be- and with the full knowledge of how much they were wanted. Writing my story must include the emotional element, or it wouldn't be honest. Or true. Not having carried my own kids and given birth to them myself is the vital and central part of this story. The fact that I still carry sorrow about this is the truth. Take it or leave it. The fact that I still carry sorrow about this is also totally normal and human, and it's not something I'm prepared to defend or apologize for. And I do still carry some sorrow about the fact that I can't ever be pregnant and experience childbirth myself. I just do. And it doesn't mean I don't love and appreciate my kids. And it doesn't mean that I'm stuck or sadly dwelling on the negative or hung up on the past. It just IS. I am simply acknowledging it, which, for me, feels much healthier than denying or burying these feelings. And I am going to write about it.
While I'm on topic, I am having a difficult day today with these feelings. I have so many dear, dear friends who happen to be pregnant right now. For fuck's sake, even Princess Kate has announced she's expecting! Is it totally sick and wrong that I somehow secretly wished she'd have had a bit more of a challenge getting pregnant? Because THAT would really make people pay better attention and sit up and take notice of the infertility crisis? Sick? Mean? Not my intent, but really- I sort of did. There. I said it. I read something today- details about how someone who is newly pregnant after also struggling with infertility for a long time and about the magic and miracle of hearing for the first time, the heartbeat of the baby inside her. She was in tears. I was in tears. Totally mixed and conflicting for me. I'm so happy and excited for her. At the same time, it put me emotionally, right back to where I was before I had my kids. Which hurt so much. Again, I found myself feeling that jealousy, anger, unfairness, "why not me?" feeling which is so awful and ugly and painful. I just feel I got dealt a bad hand. I got cheated. Not pretty, I know. But there it is. I hope I'm not alone in this? Because I know a LOT of women who have gone through infertility, IVF, etc. and who are now mommies. But I don't know ANYONE else who has had their children via gestational surrogacy. I know no one who I feel knows or can fully understand my predicament of exact emotions. I'm feeling kind of alone in this. I guess that's my hand. I'll "deal."

   

Tar- Jay

I'm done. And I do mean done. Chanukah, Christmas, Birthdays; kids, other family, stockings- done.
Thanks to the magic of Target, I was able to complete the madness today, and I must admit *bows head shamefully* that once again, I've overdone it. I swore- like I do every year, that I wouldn't. But I did. Oh well. I'll put "Santa" on most of the tags. Blame the fat man in the red suit for the spoiling! Haha! I WILL, however, make sure we do a major clean-out before anything new comes into the house. Damnit.
I was so amused while I walked around the red-bullseye this morning- bleary-eyed and overwhelmed, clutching my Starbuck's cup like it was filled with the most precious nectar of life. Which it was, of course. I was amused because I was surrounded by, and repeatedly bumped into other bleary-eyed, overwhelmed moms clutching lists in one hand, Starbuck's cups in the other. We all looked as if we'd just been released from the same work-camp; Tired, harassed, eyes glazed over with the sheer over-indulgence of it all. Clutching our coffee like it was heroin. And the toys- my G-D some of the shit being sold is outrageous! I've said it before: Can't my kids please just be 5 for a minute, before they know everything about everything in the world!? It was really shockingly difficult to find things for them that weren't either for babies, or somehow electronic, way too mature, just plain weird, or completely in-appropriate. Here are some of these gems, for your enjoyment....

"Election 2012 Barbie"  Oh this one kills me. Look closely. It says "The White House Project" in the upper left hand corner. Is this a new project to put a Barbie in every office in the White House? Is it something the incumbent administration will be implementing in order to restore a few minutes of playtime into every working day? What does this mean? And what is UP with the Secret-Service dog behind her, complete with its own sunglasses and ear-piece!? WTF!? The front of the podium reads, "Stands on her own" Does this mean she can literally stand up in her minnie-mouse high heeled feet, without the aid of that podium? Or does it mean that she stands on her own- as in, she doesn't answer to anyone or anything. Is this a new political party she's forming? Note the button: President B party. The Barbie-party: we stand for fashionable outfits which always include some pink, nice pearls, big boobs, long legs, and no genitalia. Rock the vote.

Will someone please, for the love of all that's holy, tell me what the hell the deal is with the zombie/ monster obsession? These are from a collection called "Monster High"- Monster high school? Monsters getting high? What? This one is particularly horrifying. It's a "build your own monster" pack. Complete with severed heads, dismembered body parts, come-f-me heels, and detached hands and ears. But only ONE wig.

This one is called Threaderella. She's quite fashionable. Note that one hand is not attached. And how does she WALK in those whore shoes!?

OK. I do not have a tween yet. I don't know who Cody Simpson is. I can only assume he's some tween-popular pop star. Sophie did say to me, to my complete horror the other day, that she's a big fan of Justin "Beaver." I nearly shat myself. When has she EVER heard any of his music? Do I correct her, or do I let her go on calling him a beaver? *Giggle.* I said beaver. Here's the new singing Cody Simpson doll- stick your finger through the hole in the packaging and poke him in the penis to hear him sing!

What. The f-k. Is this? Designer clothing for Barbie. Because these high-brow fashion houses have nothing better to do than to design crap for 9 inch dolls? Oh. Wait. I guess they're really just about the same size as the stuff that's being designed for real-life emaciated waifs. Just a bit shorter. Hey- let's dress Barbie up for a night of clubbing and make sure she looks hot enough to get laid!  Look- she's got some CFM heels, and a small silver handbag- comes with a tiny glass vial filled with white powder, a miniature mirror and a teensy rolled up dollar bill to complete the party!

Meet Bonebasher Bane. With bashing action. Is it just me, or does this guy vaguely resemble one of the Village People? He looks like he just stepped off the set of Pulp Fiction- wearing his leathers and his silencing face mask. Excuse me, but is that a big green dildo on the left? Try me. Squeeze my legs.

This one is a "Brawlin' Buddy." It's a stuffed plush. When I think of a stuffed plush toy, I think of something my kid is going to snuggle up with in bed. Is this what you want your sweet child to be squeezing in his bed when he sleeps?  And he talks. What does he say? I'm not sure I want to know.

I'm from Chicago. I just thought this one was really cool. But where's Hester? He's the one I'd really want.

Again, with the zombies!? What ARE these things!?

This is the ugliest thing I've ever seen. It's Ren. From Ren and Stimpy. Are these guys actually still around!?

Aaaaaand. Here's the Chanukah section. It's about one-eighth of a row. Tucked neatly into the very back corner of the store. Poor little Jewish kids. Let's make sure they feel even MORE different and isolated and forgotten during the HOlidays by sticking their sad little section into the furthest corner of the store. *sad clown face*