“Religion Is Like A Penis…”

I’ve wanted to post something along these lines for such a long time. It’s been a long process, but I’ve finally accepted what I know I’ve always felt and it has been so liberating to allow myself the freedom to admit it. A Momma’s View has put into words what I’ve always been terrified to write about. I commend her bravery and appreciate her honesty.

A Momma's View

“Religion is like a penis. It’s fine to have one and it’s fine to be proud of it, but please don’t whip it out in public and start waving it around…”

Oh my! Did I really just write that???

Please do not take any offense when reading this post. I only share my thoughts with you. I am only telling you about how I feel in regards to religion and the way it is handled and lived by certain people, by certain groups. I am not telling anybody out there what they should do or shouldn’t (well, as long as you don’t force anything on me).

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We all have our fair share of fantasies, sometimes inappropriate, sometimes outlandish, sometimes ridiculously obscure.  As of late, one particular fantasy dominates for me.  It is not inappropriate, outlandish, or obscure, but it is pretty unobtainable.  It goes a little something like this:

Wake up early one day.  Put on comfy clothes that aren’t too tight on my ever-fattening body.  Kiss my sweet girl and husband good-bye, and leave the house.  Grab a coffee.  Wander the aisles of Target for an hour or two (or three).  Wander the aisles of the fabric store for an hour or two (or three).  More coffee.  Come home.  Kiss the sweet girl and husband hello, and then lock myself in my sewing room.  Play some Format, Jimmy Eat World, Less Than Jake (and everything that reminds me of when I was young).  Sew lots of pretty things for an hour or two (or ten).  Read a book.  Cuddle the sweet girl and watch some random Disney movie.  And, finally, sleep without waking up ten times throughout the night.



The Dropoff

Some mornings Lulu loves getting dropped off at daycare.  She runs inside and is perfectly at ease.  Other mornings, not so much.  Sometimes she is shy, sometimes sad, sometimes tired, happy, crazy… I never know what I am going to get with this girl.

She was happy this morning.  She sat down at a table to finish eating her Cheerios.  I hung her sweatshirt up, gave her a kiss, and asked her to be a good girl at school today, to which she replied, in her commanding little voice:

“Mmhm.  And you be a good girl at work today.”  – Lulu, age 3



I’ve struggled with dependence for a long time, but not in the way you might be thinking.  I struggle with allowing myself to be dependent on someone, something.  I hate not being in control or having at least some degree of control.  I will punch you in the face if you try to pick me up.  Even when I would drink “a little too much” in my earlier years, I was still the soberest drunk in the bunch.  This is also the reason I’ve never tried illegal drugs – I have the feeling that I would like them WAY too much.  I mean, I like caffeine WAY too much – can you imagine how crazy I would get on meth or crack (though I’ve always thought I would be more of a coke kind of girl)?!  But in all seriousness, this is the reason I refuse to use narcotic pain killers.  Luckily I’ve never been in a place where I really needed them, but the one vicoden I took after I broke my foot made me realize that I need to avoid the vicoden.

My husband and I are both very independent people.  We have our “together” things, but we have plenty of our own things as well.  And we are both okay with the other pursuing those other things.  I’ve never been worried, or jealous, or insecure about what he is doing when I am not around, and vice versa.  This isn’t intended to be taken to mean that I am not dependent on him at all.  I’ve loved him since our second date when I was 21 years old.  I’ve loved him through the happy times, through the four years we were apart, and every day since we found each other again.  I will never not love him.  

Growing up I learned that if I wanted something done, I was going to have to do it myself.  Many hard lessons were learned this way, but I am glad of them.  My parents never hovered over me or distrusted me (at least, I don’t think they distrusted me).  Even through the crappy 19th year of my life they let me declare my independence and make a LOT-LOT-LOT of stupid mistakes.   And this isn’t intended to be taken to mean that they left me to flounder.  They let me learn those life lessons, and they bailed me out on occasion, because they love me, and because they knew I needed it.

I am dependent on my family, my friends, my baby, my job… these are not things that are difficult to be dependent on.  They are privileges, and I am happy to give myself up to them. 

There is one thing in my life that I am absolutely dependent on that I hate being dependent on.  If I forget to take my Zoloft for one day, things are okay.  Two days, things start to irritate me.  Three days, I am a total bitch who can’t handle anything that isn’t status quo and just wants to sleep.  And if I let myself get to that point (I really am insanely forgetful – “mom brain”), then it is no longer that I forgot to take it and more that I start fighting the dependence I have on it.  I’ve always managed to snap myself out of it and start taking the damn pills again, but holy crap, why do I let myself get to that place?  There is nothing wrong with needing medication, and I am a huge advocate of taking that step if it is going to help you.  And I obviously need it.  And it obviously helps me.  


Can I Have A Take Back? I’d Really Like to Take That Back

During a discussion on university liability with regard to student mental health in class today, the question of pre-screening freshmen for mental disorders came up. I disagreed with the idea (for many reasons) but stated that if we screen for mental disorders, we will have to screen for everything.

Keeping the discussion going, my teacher said, “But it’s been shown that suicide has a high incidence rate in college students.”

My rebuttal?

“So does herpes.”

Caroline in Grad School… for the win.

One Week as a Grad Student {and the important lesson I’ve learned}

I’ve officially been a grad student for one week now (I don’t count my summer course – it was online and ridiculous).  I’ve attended all my classes.  I really enjoy both professors and I really enjoy the subject matter of my law and higher ed class.  Finance in higher ed might take a little longer to grow fond of, but I haven’t given up hope – time will tell.  

The last week has been busy.  We had a party which meant a thorough scrubbing of my house, Lucy has been sick, and now I am sick.  I’m really tired.  I miss my sewing machine.  My in-laws gave me a serger for my birthday and I haven’t had a chance to even open the instruction manual.  I’ve been living on caffeine.  I only want to eat carbs.

But I am happy, and I am still excited and motivated to really embrace this experience and opportunity.  I’ve already met so many incredible people, and I hope that new friendships are in the making.

That being said, here is short, but highly valuable, list of what I have learned one week into graduate school:

  1. Books, notebooks, and binders are heavy.  It might be a good idea to invest in a back pack.
  2. Sleep is crucial.  Reading comprehension will not occur if I can’t keep my eyes open.
  3. Reading with white noise in the background is actually incredibly helpful for my concentration.  Locusts make great white noise.
  4. I cannot multi-task when it comes to parenting and reading.  Both require my undivided attention, and chances are the dimpled ball of energy that seldom stops talking is going to win in the battle for momma’s attention.
  5. However much time I think I will need to get through my week’s readings needs to be multiplied by 3.  This was an unfortunate lesson to learn this week, but at least I’ve learned it early enough to remedy it.  

And now, I must work.