Dr. Christine Blasey Ford is All of Us

If you are a woman, and reading this, the probability of you feeling upset about what is happening in the United States right now is high.

Dr. Christine Blasey Ford stood up in front of a panel of men with power and influence (read: the patriarchy) and described in granular detail her experience of sexual assault in the 80s by Brett Kavanaugh, nominee to the Supreme Court, and his peers. It appears that this testimony has fallen on the deaf ears of men whose upper lip sweat was glistening in standard definition as the wheels turned, and they thought about instances from their high school or college years when *maybe* they took advantage of women in a way they felt entitled to back then. “A simpler time” I think I’ve heard it referred to by people who make excuses for the Kavanaughs of the world.

Ruth Bader Ginsburg must be foaming at the mouth to dissent.

The reason you are probably angry about what is happening in fallen Rome is not only because Kavanaugh will most likely still be appointed to his position in the Supreme Court (and make the most powerful rulings for other Kavanaughs of the world) but because you are Dr. Christine Blasey Ford, but you.

I am Dr. Christine Blasey Ford, but me.

I think I can confidently say that all women, at some point in their lives, know fear at a primal level. Even if you call it by another name, you know the details:

You feel, almost hear, your pupils dilate when your breath catches in your throat. The hair on the back of your neck stands up instantly and sweats, a chill runs down your spine. You shiver uncontrollably, unable to catch your lost breath because your diaphragm is spasm-ing. You are thankful your bladder is empty because you’ve already lost control of so many things: safety, security, space. Numbness takes over in self preservation. You hear fog, and think to yourself, “Next time I’ll be more prepared. Next time I’ll be stronger. Next time I’ll have an escape plan. Next time I won’t be so nice. Next time. Next time.” Not realizing that the problem isn’t you.

It’s like that every night out. Sometimes on the nights in. Every shift at work where the safety protocols are lacking. Every midnight change-over with that coworker who backs you into corners. A phone call from that customer who got your number from your dunce work mate. A knock on your door from that same customer who also found out your address. In that parkade. At that movie theatre. On that dark street. In your neighbourhood. At your home. If you’re a woman, it is inescapable.

Unless you point the finger and you name it. You call it out when you see it happening to another woman. You teach your sons that women are powerful and respected, and that consent is the most important. Teach your sons to teach their peers, and hold strong in their feminism. We are all born of woman. We must act accordingly to not only ask, but insist that “our male counterparts remove their feet from our necks.”

You are a hero Dr. Blasey Ford. A goddamn hero.

#ibelieveher

Sincerely,

Fumbling Mom of feminist sons

A Letter to You, My Youngest Kiddo…

Dear Youngest Kiddo,

You’re asleep now in your crib, hands cast above your head, fists relaxed, currently dreaming of your few short months on this earth…and perhaps the ether that came before.

I write to you, as I did your brother, in the first few months of life to also let you know what I see, where you come from, and hopefully inspire you at a later time when I am gone, and you need me.

You are the youngest in our little family of 4, and you will find it is inevitable that you will, at some point in your life, be compared to your older brother.

Even now I am guilty of posting adorable photos of you and him, side-by-side, as your birthdays are so close together, just 4 years apart. I cannot help myself as I clutch these memories of you both in those photographs with the fierceness of a mother’s love for her boys. Hoping to hold on to time, freeze it ever so briefly.

Even so, you are your own man. You are already, at such a young age, strong and independent, wanting warmth and love, and slightly surprised by the ferociousness of your older brother’s love for you. “Please be careful! Don’t smother your brother!” your Dad and I say on an hourly basis. We laugh, and exclaim that your brother will follow you to the ends of the earth to hug you as hard as he can. We hope you will let him.

This is a beautiful gift, to be the youngest, as your Mommy is the youngest sibling too.

It is important to understand that as the youngest, you have responsibilities to be not only adored (undeniably!) but to show the beauty of being unexpectedly strong while also being vulnerable. Even now I see you absorbing the essence of light and laughter around you, eyeing everyone, reading their thoughts, then responding, as you do. Intuitive you are, my little one.

Your qualities already precede you.

You are tall, with kind, grey eyes. Although ample height is not known to be common in our genetics, I hope you understand that you should always feel tall, even if you are not necessarily that in stature. Be tall in kindness, generosity, compassion, and empathy. With these qualities, others will see you from a mile away, and follow your lead. This world will thank you.

You find patterns to be marvellous wonders, and are astonished by their existence. You see these before anyone else notices they are there, and I hope you hold on to this curiosity and astuteness. Life is made of patterns, and the sooner you see them, the more you can share them with others, perhaps helping them find their way in a confusing labyrinth.

Your voice is powerful, and you are not afraid to share your opinion, my sweet child. Currently, you use this to let me know when you are hungry or annoyed, but it should be acknowledged that you have a strength that many others do not. I hope you will use your voice to stand up for what is right, and talk openly about when things feel wrong. Communication is vital to relationships, and you are so gifted in this, just like your father, and his father before him.

You have an affinity for snuggling like no other. Touch is your most favourite of the senses, and you should always feel love in this –never suffering, or pain. If you find yourself in the latter, I hope you have the strength to leave. Know that love is where you belong.

Although still little, I see you are wise. Your eyes give you away, revealing an old soul, and it is clear to me that you have seen the stars up close. Your experiences will make up a large part of who you are and who you will become. We have all had those days we wish we could forget, but I hope you know that mistakes are human, and learning from them is what makes you better than you were a minute, a day, a week, a month, a year ago. Mistakes are opportunities. Seize them my love.

As I lay here, post partum belly still squishy and soft with the memory of your growth, I listen to you breathe in the baby monitor, thinking of you, and the future life that lay ahead. I am already in awe of your spirit. Your transition from wherever you were onto this plane was flawless, and you have owned every second of your new life. Rock on, my small one. You have a huge village that loves you so.

Love your biggest fan,

Your Fumbling Mom

Me on Behalf of You

Sometimes one year can feel like a very long time, while in the same instance feel like yesterday 365 days ago.

I think time, when you’re no longer creating it, is probably more like a web with too many starting points to really know where the beginning ends. I suppose this network of ideas and feelings and thoughts would be the most accurate description of what memories might look like.

The very last time I spoke to you on FaceTime you told me a story about when I was little. A memory from my childhood that I had forgotten in the busy life I lead, creating time.

You laughed as you told me how you would automatically say ‘no’ when your children asked you something. You explained that one day you had an epiphany, and decided way back then you would consciously change your response to ‘maybe’, always, until you’d had a chance to think about what was being asked, and what you were required to give.

I was very young when you changed your answer to ‘maybe’, about 4 or 5, and you told me how my sister would send me in to you, as the youngest child, to ask you for the things we wanted. You explained she said I could get a yes from you, when the answer was usually a no. — I like to think it’s because my sister believes I’m more charming, but I’m not sure that’s entirely true.

You would always answer ‘Maybe’, and I would run away excitedly to return to my sister, hiding around the corner, exclaiming you said ‘Maybe!’ because in my young mind, if it wasn’t a ‘No’ well then it simply must be a ‘Yes!’.  You would laugh at my antics, then most often say ‘Yes’ after all of that.

I laughed as you told me that story. Creating memories from a memory, although I didn’t know it at the time.

I went to see you today, in Deep Bay where you are now free, swimming among the waves. You’ve probably been to Hawaii and back, and all around the Gulf Islands in this past year. At least, I hope you have.

I brought your grandson with me to say ‘Hi!’ today. He says that now, in his small, cheerful voice. He also says ‘Bumpa’ for ‘Grandpa’, which I think you would have laughed roariously about. I wish you could see him now, a little boy instead of a baby like he was when you held him for the first, and last, time. I think we would have had a lot to talk about, raising a boy. He has your ears. He also wears your cowboy hat around the house quite comfortably saying “Yee-haw!” as best he can. I like to think that even though he doesn’t remember your visit with him, he still misses you. His Bumpa.

I receive at least one piece of your mail every day, waiting for me, in a tiny mailbox when I get home from work. “Me on behalf of You” is what it normally says. Often from some vendor, tax department, lawyer, notary, accountant. They write about you as though you were a business that I’m now responsible for closing, or liquidating, or collecting, or paying. These people send me a lot of mail about you. I suppose that means you lived a full life, with all the things you weren’t allowed to take with you when you died: whoever is in charge of this dying business didn’t say ‘Maybe’ to the somethings I’m sure we all would want to take with us when we go.

I cried harder last night than I have in a very long time…The kind of crying where you fall asleep smelling cool rain on hot pavement. It felt good to cry because I hadn’t really sobbed about you leaving until then. –“Stiff upper lip!” you would say, and I would keep marching like a good little soldier, afraid to show a chink in my armour. Afraid to feel what someone my age should feel when they lose a parent because vulnerability creates a feeling of weakness in me.

I asked you today, as your grandson and I looked out to you, floating effortlessly in the salty water of the Bay, if I’ll get to see you again some day. You didn’t really answer me, so I guess that makes it a maybe…

Which I’ll choose to take as a Yes.

Love, your daughter,

Fumbling Mom

For My Dad

I don’t know how to talk about this very well, so I thought that, like everything difficult for me to say, I would write.

My Dad died yesterday.

I was looking at my Facebook page, which for all intents and purposes is actually a time capsule, and my Dad’s last comment was one week ago on a picture of my son and my husband watching a hockey game. He often wrote his comments in my son’s voice saying this time: “I love my hockey!”. I look like my Dad, and my son has some of his (my) features, so these voice overs are actually very fitting, and often funny.

I’m so happy to have these memories etched into digital photos to keep as long as technology is hanging about in this world.

My Dad lived an interesting life.

He was a broadcaster and producer for a local TV station, then shifted careers in his twenties attending university to achieve his bachelor and masters degrees in Education. He taught elementary and high school for many years, eventually joining the administration as Principal in two different school districts. In his spare time, he was a contractor for many homes, built each of my childhood abodes, and was a master carpenter of cabinetry and furniture. My love for movies, how to write and make them came from my Dad.
He had many talents, although spoke about them rarely.

Dad gave me important advice when I was young which I have heeded as best I know how:

“Do something important with your life, and take the hard road first. It will be challenging, but more rewarding much earlier than if you take the easy way out.”

He was right.

Because of this advice, I have managed to accomplish many things as I finish the last year of my twenties. He reiterated through my young life that I should not make the same mistakes he did. I have tried to do so, and of course made mistakes all my own. These mistakes are not better or worse just different. Just human.

My Dad was human like all of us. He did his best with what he was given. Loved as best he could, lived life, and worked so hard.

I will forever be grateful for the lessons he has taught me, and the wisdom of his advice.

Dad, I’ll meet you in the den to watch a movie with you on the other side.

I’ll pretend I still think the kissing scenes are gross…

Love your daughter,

Kell Belle