Mostly I’m writing this post to get yesterday’s post off the front page of my blog. I’m a sissy, I guess, but I really don’t like controversy. I used to LOVE controversy…I even made the sweetest girl in my class cry during a high school debate once because I smelled blood and went for the kill. But when my life exploded in my face about six years ago, I got enough controversy and debate and difficult conversations to last a lifetime. Now I’ve completely lost my taste for it.
I know I shouldn’t be this rattled by yesterday’s post, since almost all of the comments were overwhelmingly respectful and at least partially supportive, but I really am. I spent most of last night wishing a hole would open up in the floor and swallow me. Why do I write these things? I asked myself.
I write them because they need to be written, even when they’re difficult to write. They need to be discussed, even if it means admitting that people call me out, rightly or wrongly. Obviously I was fumbling through that argument, as were many of my commenters. The clarifications and discussions in the combox (which I plan on getting back into today) were awesome. It’s good for us to think about these things, to be challenged on our views, to back down and re-think things and work together to find what’s true. And I’m so glad that I have such thoughtful, respectful, generous readers.
But right now, I’m also glad that I have two of the most adorable nephews alive. Seriously. I’m babysitting for my sister-in-law while she has a photo shoot, and I’m letting the kids run amock while I type. Occasionally I’ll pause to break up a fight or laugh at little Luigi as he toddles around and Lemon crawls frantically after him. I missed these little dudes.
My sis-in-law had to leave for the shoot at 8:45, so the kids and I, with the incredible help of my parents, woke up and basically dove straight into the car to brave the hideous DFW traffic at the ungodly hour of 7:30. Luckily we had Mumford and Sons to keep us company as we crawled along 161 and 635. If you guys haven’t yet discovered the wonder and glory that is Mumford and Sons, you simply must. They are divine. Here, I’ll get you started.
This is Charlotte’s favorite Mumford and Sons song, and I have to tell you, there is nothing cuter than listening to a 2 and a half year old sing “Oh man is a giddy thing” over and over.
Oh yes, and those of you who were fuming at my post (as many of you admitted to being) can rest assured that the God of Feminism properly punished me, since I sliced my finger open last night while I was cutting bread for dinner. It bled for six hours and still hurts like a curse word I would use if my mother didn’t read this blog.
Speaking of my mother, she was the one who doctored me up. Let me tell you, this lady totally missed her calling. She should have been some sort of Angel of Mercy to those in pain and suffering. This is exactly what happened after I sliced the everloving hell (sorry, Mom) out of my finger.
Me: (gasping in pain) Sienna, go get Mimi! (I run to the sink, where blood spurts violently out of my finger and splatters everything in sight. I begin to freak out while oddly thinking about the blood splatter patterns. This is a direct result of too much Dexter.)
Mom: What’s wrong? (She walks every so slightly faster when she notices the fountain of blood gushing out of my finger.)
Me: I sliced my finger off! I have to go to the ER.
Mom: Oh, calm down. Let me see. (Inspects said sliced open finger) It’s cut sideways. You’re fine. (Wraps finger with all the gentleness of a Medieval Inquisitioner.)
Me: Mom! Owowowowowowowowow! That hurts! I’m telling you, I need stitches! Or at least a shot to numb my finger! It REALLY hurts!
Mom: Oh, you big baby. When I was a kid, Mamaw sliced open my wrist vertically to get a splinter out while my brothers and sisters held me down and I didn’t whine this much. You’re fine. (Shows me scar to prove her point. Said scar runs vertically up her wrist and looks like a failed suicide attempt.)
Me: Mom! You could have died!
Mom: I know. Mamaw kept saying she thought there was a vein close to there, but what else was she supposed to do? Anyway, it would cost you a fortune. You’ll thank me later.
Me: You’re the meanest mom ever.
Mom: I know. Get over it.
See what I mean? Florence Nightingale ain’t got nothing on my mom, I tell ya.
And even as I awkwardly type this, my finger is throbbing, so don’t imagine that I didn’t get my just desserts!
Anyway, I’ve got babies that need to be put down for a nap and an exciting new commenter accusing me of propagating “sexist rubbish” to answer, so I’ll bid you adieu. Here’s hoping that the rest of my fingers stay intact in light of the excessive misogyny that is doubtless about to pour out of my keyboard.