Wired For Noise

photo credit: functoruser

I’ve been hiding for the last week. Away from the computer, phone, and TV. And it ain’t as great as some people make it out to be.

The weather is getting better, in that I’m no longer wanting to live in an electric blanket all day long. So the kids and I have been making the most of it, getting out while we can.

Though, I’ve realized that I’m just not the type of girl who could survive unplugged. Drop me on a deserted island sure, but do not take away my WiFi.

This Sunday Evan turns 6. The number is nearly inconceivable to me. How the hell has six years passed since my first born was born? I am practically at a loss about it. We’re planning a party Friday night, then a family thing on Sunday. And I will weep, openly, with baby photos clutched to my chest. Then I’ll gorge myself on cake.

Hey, I birthed him, I get to eat cake too.

photo credit: SMN

Right now, and for the last few days, there has been a internet storm brewing over a woman who has been publicly sharing her abortion online. Oh the firestorm this has caused, with temper flaring on all sides of the debate.

Yesterday I tweeted about an article I read on her choice Tweeting an abortion: A blogger takes to Twitter and YouTube as she terminates her pregnancy, and women should thank her. Now, the article discusses how her decision to be public rather than shameful and secretive takes away some of the stigma around abortion. Which I agree is a good thing. Unfortunately, not everyone feels that way. Not even on my “side”. Which is why I received this reply:

I’m prochoice, not proabortion

OK. Pro-abortion. What does that mean? Well, it depends on which side you are coming from.

See, the anti-choice/pro-life people use pro-abortion as both an insult, and a reflection of their own goals. Many, many, many (despite the rhetoric) do not actually want women to “choose life”. I had an argument with one the other day who said my children will grow to hate me if they find I chose to have them, that they were choices. No, “choosing” life is not the goal. Having pregnancy forced upon a woman for her punishment of sex is the real goal. There is no choice involved.

So, when they say “choose life” and think “do it because you have to”, they assume the opposite is true. That when I say “choose” I must mean, as they would, “do it because you have to”. Where my “have to” must naturally be abortion. Therefore, to be pro-choice is to be pro-abortion in that I protest at maternity clinics and want to drag pregnant women kicking and screaming in abortion clinic all the time. You know, like them but the opposite.

photo credit: alexandralee

Then there is the other side. The “prochoice, not proabortion” side.

I’m going to assume that if you are pro-choice, then you are aware that I do not actually want to force every woman into an abortion whether she wants it or not. So we’ll strike that out as an option. What’s left. Well, I’ve noticed that a lot who are “not proabotion” tend to phrase their pro-choice stance with a clause. You know the “I’m pro-choice, but I would never have an abortion.” Hell, I used to say the same thing.

Until it was pointed out to me that there’s really no need to add the escape clause at the end. That adding it in does not stop the anti-choicers from wanting to hurl stones at my head, and often makes women who did have abortions feel othered and shamed. Shit. What exactly is the real purpose of adding in that “but”. Why not just say “I’m pro-choice” and be done with it. Does it really matter whether or not you personally would make that choice at all?

Look, I’m not saying that the people who say this do it intentionally. Most probably never even considered what that extra statement even means. But, when you are told you are saying something offensive there are 2 ways to deal. Either become hyper-defensive and scream that you were not saying what the person said, or thank them and spend some time honestly reflecting on their comment.

So, assuming that you do not believe pro-choice people desire to force abortions on every woman, what is wrong with being pro-abortion? Is it not a viable choice? Does it not have benefits? Are there not reasons to choose it? Even if you want to lower the rates that abortions are performed by better education and health care, and we all do, does that make abortions themselves something not to be in support of when it is what the woman chooses to do so?

If you are not pro-abortion, are you honestly pro-choice?

photo credit: SarahDeer

To me, it feels like another version of the “but I…” clause. It creates an othering, attempts to place yourself in neutral territory by throwing a bone to the anti-choice side while still supporting women’s choice (and throwing the women who do make it under the bus). Frankly, it reeks of slut shaming. “I totally support your choice, but I would never do it because I’m a good girl and always safe and perfect and love babies and you should totally be ashamed and quiet and hidden and only openly weep about the horrible choice you were forced to make if the topic ever comes up. But I totally support you!”

You do not need to add an escape clause. You do not need to draw a line between yourself and those women who do have abortions. It is OK to be pro-abortion (in the rational sense, not the anti-choice fictional world sense). Abortion is a safe, viable health option and it is a good thing to support this option for the women who use it.Women who have abortions should not be quiet, or ashamed, or hidden away. In fact, they should make YouTube videos and blogs about it and have conversations on Twitter about it the same way we talk about birth and breastfeeding and menstruation and budgeting advice and aggravating partners. And they should not feel like the people who claim to support them are doing so while drawing a line across the floor to separate them.

photo credit: gruntzooki

photo credit: wiredfornoise

Let me talk a little about Trey.

This June he’ll be 4. Four years since my one and only hospital birth, one of the worst birth experiences I’ve had. Four years of a cuddly, little blonde boy with bright blue eyes and an infectious giggle. Four years of chubby cheeks, extra hugs, and puppy dog feet (seriously, his feet are HUGE).

But since he was 18 months, it’s been almost 2.5 years of something else.

Trey is … extreme. He is incredibly sensitive to, well, everything. He roars, screams, hits, claws, bites, throws, and loses control at the drop of a dime. These are not typical toddler tantrums. He has freak outs that sometimes takes 2 adults to control, and they can last for hours at a time. When he hits this wall there is no reasoning with him, no talking to him, no breaking into his head.

He also cries. Sobs and wails , for lack of a better word, hysterically. He screams, cries, wails, and sobs as if he is experiencing deep physical pain. Strangers have been known to rush over, certain he was hit by a car or shot. He is intense and nothing short of letting him run down will comfort him.

I’ve seen tantrums. One child takes another’s toy, that other throws a fit about it. Trey, though, in that situation would rush immediately into the attack. He would stop at nothing until he caused physical harm, until he sees blood. The sweetest, cuddliest boy in the world because a pint sized ax murderer in seconds. Yet, that is not all that is needed to set him off.

I have seen Trey explode because Evan walked into or out of a room. Trey has exploded because a leaf fell from a tree and landed at his feet. Trey has exploded because the red book was next to the blue one on the bookshelf. Trey has exploded for reasons I still do not know, suddenly bursting into a rage out of nowhere when no one was near him at all.

One doctor has told me that Trey is on the autism spectrum. Another that he’s just an intense toddler. Another was certain there was some kind of abuse happening somewhere, though none could be found. Still another warned me that if he hasn’t outgrown this by 5, I need to be prepared to a lifetime of medication and therapy for him.

Trey’s become like our dirty little secret. Many days we have to walk on eggshells, as even a word can set him off. I avoid outings where I won’t have a way to escape with him quickly. I stay tense and nervous, paying more attention to his every move than my company for fear that he’ll suddenly explode. I apologize and make excuses and worry that other parents will see his outbursts as a sign of something horrible.

I consider putting him in school. Me. The one who rants about how bad public schools are thinks about getting him enrolled in Head Start and hoping they can do something I can’t.

Is it his personality? Is it a chemical dysfunction? Is it something else?

This morning I checked my email while making the kids breakfast. I had a request for 500 words on breastfeeding and breast cancer, $40, and they wanted it this morning. So I plopped bowls of oatmeal and stacks of pancakes on the table (precooked, then frozen, for fast breakfasts). I filled Saffron’s cup with juice, gave her a pile of her baby poofs and a gram cracker (her favorite). Then I sat down to work.

For two hours I checked sources, read long boring resources, and typed till my hands cramped. I edited, reworded, and counted words over and over again.

The whole two hours was spent with the kids absolutely certain that I had never spent a moment of time with them and that if they didn’t get my undivided attention that very second they would all die. Trey banged his toy computer, the one that beeps and dings, right next to my head. Evan rambled as loudly as he could talk in my ear about Every. Little. Thought. that popped into his head. And Saffron crawled under the table and got stuck fifty thousand times, even though she could get back out the exact same way she got in.

I begged, I pleaded, I bribed. I even yelled. I just needed quiet. For five lousy minutes, just eat breakfast then wander off to play like you do every other freaking morning.

Finally Evan sulked off, declaring that I never, ever pay attention to him and I’m the meanest mom ever. Trey sat by the door sobbing because he couldn’t bang his computer in my ear anymore (to be fair, Trey sobs and cries if a shadow passes over him or the wind changes direction). Saffron stood at the gate I put up and screamed at me for the indignity of being prevented from getting stuck again.

And I got the article done. 498 words, describing ways to detect breast cancer, possible causes of lumps while breastfeeding, and the changes that breast tissue goes through during pregnancy and lactation. Sources were cited, images were chosen, references were placed. Then I hit save. And the entire thing vanished into the nothingness. Not a single word was spared.

They emailed me back, they found someone else who could write it up quickly.

I don’t think money is worth this hassle. Can I just pay my bills with cookies and knitted scarves?

(How is freelance writing sometimes like childbirth? At the end of the day you need a tube of hemorrhoid relief. Ba dun duh!)