I was fifteen years old the first time I called my mother a bitch ($0.25). My own daughter returned the favor when she was just four.
It happened on a hectic morning after I had told Anna to put her gymnastics leotard on as I was getting into the shower. It was inside-out, so she took it downstairs to my husband, who didn’t understand why she had brought it downstairs and told her to put it away. Caught between two mis-communicating parents and too young to articulate to either of us that she was at an impasse, she began to melt down. Eventually my husband put her in Time Out for not listening and that set in motion a series of events that forever changed the way I view my daughters, myself and women in general.
Charming and cute the first twenty times I watched it, Disney’s highest grossing animated film of all time has officially worn out its welcome in my home. Frozen has transformed my innocent, tone deaf little girls into hip-swaying, mane-stroking, crotch-high-slit wearing pageant princesses and I am officially one Let It Go rendition away from the booby hatch. Continue reading →
I don’t intend for this to be a serial blog where each entry is a
continuation of the previous one. However, I felt liked I owed an
explanation of the bathroom goings-on from my first post wherein I referenced actual physical injuries. My scabby arm will surely heal but I will carry the emotional wounds with me forever. Continue reading →