Tonight my counselor suggested that I seemed to be doing great.  I had just finished telling her how busy I've been, that I love my temp job but now have permanent employment (starting the 16th) and that we'd had a wonderful Christmas.  She basically asked if I was ready to end our sessions.  I think she saw my immediate panic!

While I may appear to be doing great, and I probably actually am compared to most in similar situations, just talking with her helps me to sort and organize my thoughts.  Through the chaos of my every day I don't really take time to do that, and when I talk things out to her I realize why certain things are, how certain things came to be, and steps I still need to take.

Perhaps I'm not using our sessions for what traditional counseling is intended to be used for, but she isn't going to get rid of me that easily.

And by talking to her tonight, and verbally organizing my thoughts, I realized the importance of writing an email to the D.A., something that I keep pushing to the back burner.  But this email is important because this man basically influences our future.

I put aside an hour tonight (at the dismay of my favorite 2-year-old) and carefully advocated for my children.  Here it is:

Dear Mr. XXXXXX,

I am writing you regarding a matter important to my family, and from what I've read on your website biography is important to you as well being that it regards the protection of children.  

I believe Detective XXXXXXXXX will be turning in a packet to you if she has not done so already.  That packet contains information regarding a crime against my 16-year-old daughter, Sxylar (case 2013-xxxxxx).  Last September  I caught her stepdad, Cxdy XXXXXXXX, recording video onto his phone of her from under the bathroom door while she was getting in the shower.  I'll forgo the details since you will find those in Detective XXXXXXXXX'X report.

I'm certain you receive reports similar to this every day and I'm sure there are many that are much worse.  But, what makes this story different is that in counseling he admitted what he did.  There is a confession.  There are a couple of reasons he confessed, but I can guarantee none of them involve being a man of good moral character.

Of course I want him prosecuted so that Sxylar sees there is justice for the violation against her, but there is also a need for him to be prosecuted because we share two young children of which the youngest, XXXXX, has Down syndrome.  While Sxylar has every right to never see Cxdy again, his children will always have him in their lives.  

As the District Attorney I'm sure you've seen the statistics of sexual abuse against females with disabilities.  I just read that the incident rate is reported to be as high as 150% of that of females without disabilities and it is estimated that only 20% of those incidents are ever reported. 

Right now a protective order is in place while the investigation is ongoing.  Once that protective order is gone, and if there is no prosecution, I fear for XXXXX's future.  He was willing to violate his stepdaughter because he calculated an opportunity to do so and I can't take it for granted that he would have any more respect for his own daughter.  

I believe God intervened the night I caught Cxdy, as he was very sneaky, never guessing that I would unsuspectingly come down the hallway in the dark and without shoes to make a sound. The odds were against me ever finding out. It would be naive to believe this was the very first incident or that he has the self control to stop on his own.  

If he is prosecuted it gives us the tools to make sure he never has unsupervised visitation with XXXXX, and it protects future victims if he is a registered sex offender. 

Please remember my daughters Sxylar and XXXXX, and even my young son XXXXX when this case comes to your desk.  What would you want for your daughters or granddaughters?  

Thank you for taking the time to read my plea and I will keep you in my prayers.

Sincerely,

XXXXXX X XXXX

I'm sitting on the side of my bed debating my next move on Words with Friends when my bedroom door gently opens and my freshly-turned (as in today) 17-year-old daughter bounces over to me with a small box in her hands.

"Look what I bought today with the money I got from Nana and Grandpa."  She opens the gold ornate box to reveal a palette of shimmering bronze, gold and brown eye colors.

"Wow," I answer.  "Those are really pretty."  As I say those words I am at the same time wondering how my daughter turned out so different from me.  In this very blog I could envision me writing about the problems with women feeling they need to hide their faces in color.  I would write about how cosmetic companies market to women to make them feel inferior--that the features they are born with will never be good enough.  But at the same time  I am torn, because for Sxylar the freedom to play with these colors is a form of expression.  For her it is an art.  She doesn't see the act of wearing makeup as limiting.  She sees it as limitless.

She and I are so different.  And I realize this is okay.  And I also realize I am not always right.

I remember an entry I wrote back in March.  In regard to Clara having Down syndrome I mentioned that none of our children turn out the way we expect them to.  They don't.  Let them be who they are and they turn out better.

I look at this young woman sitting beside me and I smile because I raised her.  And she is beautiful.  Happy birthday, my baby girl.  I'm so proud of you.  Thanks for helping me see the world through your eyes.

Your bad decision changed all of our lives, but I'm sure it wasn't the first bad decision you've made.  I couldn't have been so lucky to catch you on your first offense.  I'm not naive enough to believe it.  I am lucky that I caught you at all.  I am beyond thankful that I caught you.  Otherwise, I would still be with you and you would still be violating us.

I saw the anguish on your face that day in court.  I know you are in pain.  I know you regret that you got caught.  I know that is all you regret.  Because now you have to find someone else to violate and you were so comfortable here violating my baby girl and God knows who else.

I don't want to write you to berate you.  You will get plenty of that for the rest of your life or at least while you're registered as a sex offender.  I hope you have to register as a sex offender, because then at least your next potential victim will have warning that I never had.

I don't miss you.  I've moved on and I'm quite happy with life as it is.  I do, however, still live with the guilt that you were sneaky enough to win my trust and do this to us.

I never want you back.  I don't even contemplate it, and I haven't since that night.

You did not break our hearts, and you did not break us.  What you did made us stronger because now you can never hurt any of us again.  If we have to be around you, we will be watching you.

Take your pervert phone and enjoy it while you can.  I feel strongly that karma will find its way to you and justice will prevail.

I'm done.

down syndrome is okay

I originally started this blog as a place to release the pain I was dealing with upon learning Clara, still in utero, had Down syndrome.  As I learned about Ds I became more and more comfortable with it.  When she was born I absolutely and unconditionally loved her but wished I could still take that extra chromosome away from her.

Today, just under two months shy of her first birthday, I wouldn't change who my little girl is for the world.  I love her as she is.  I now believe, contrary to what I was saying a year ago, that this is who she was meant to be.

I see other parents in such a rush to get their kids caught up with typical children and it makes me feel guilty that I am so accepting of Clara as she is.  I question my parenting.  Should I be pushing her harder?  Am I at fault if she isn't meeting typical milestones?  I don't know what the right answer is.  I want her to be happy, and I guarantee she is getting unlimited amounts of love from a mommy who is damn proud.

bath time

There are times I find myself trying to seer a moment into my mind, as if to tuck it away so I can retrieve it in my later years when I need a happy memory.  Or maybe it's for if I go to heaven, I want to remember the beautiful things I experienced here on earth.

One of those moments was tonight.

The babies always bathe together.  It's easier that way.  I bathe Clara first and I always let her end her bath with splash time.  She sits up after being scrubbed down and looks between her feet and pats the water.  She loves it.

Tonight Lxkas was sitting next to her and  lightly splashed along with her, but minding his own water territory.  He is twice her size, but with their wet, dark hair and smooth, brown skin they were equals in their love of the water and it was a beautiful sibling moment.  I wished I had a camera handy but I don't even think it could have come close to doing the moment justice.

new job

Yes, I have joined the ranks of the employed working as a temporary social worker for the state.  It will last at least four more weeks but I have an interview at the end of the month for a permanent position.  I want it bad.

letter to him

After work today I had an appointment with my therapist.  She is concerned that I'm bottling my pain.  She suggested I either write him a letter (but not to deliver, of course) or talk to a chair in which he is pretend seated.  I told her I didn't think I could pull off a Clint Eastwood but that I would give the letter a go.  I'm going to try and accomplish that task this weekend and post it here.  I think I might have a lot to say.

are you a princess?

I was changing the sheets on the bed a bit ago and Lxkas was in my room doing what Lxkas does (getting into things he shouldn't), and he saw a jeweled crown his dad had purchased from Bath and Body Works for my birthday last year to compliment some lotions.  He asked, "Are you a princess, Mommy?"

"Yes," I said.  "Mommy is a princess."

I have some good news that I will share in my next update, but for this update I dug out a journal entry I wrote several years back and I hopefully improved it.  I wanted to post something fun that has nothing to do with my problems as of recently.

Sometimes I feel like I have  lived many lives as I have so many diverse memories.  This is a good one for me:

James Brown declared it and Gwen Stefani confirmed it when she sang: “The moment that I step outside / So many reasons / For me to run and hide.” It is a man's world. As women, we often find ourselves tightly holding the hand of a man so that we too can enjoy certain experiences typically reserved for men, such as enjoying the great outdoors. Of course, it's not mandatory that we have a man at our side, but I don't think any woman can argue that we aren't safer with a trustworthy male to see after us. After all, there are creepy people who lurk to harm us, animals that hunt us, and situations where only muscle and brawn can save us.

I believe I was in the fifth grade when I learned it was a scientific fact that by puberty boys were on average physically stronger than us girls and it would remain that way for the entirety of our lives. It was devastating news to me, and it angered me. I had a brother one year older and I had never hesitated to meet his challenges when we would butt heads. Upon learning this my world changed forever and I learned to back down in non-obvious ways to my older brother, now knowing he would eventually mop the floor with me if I didn't. I never let him know of my fear, but from then on it was there.

A lot of times life doesn't seem fair to the physically weaker sex, especially when it comes to exploring nature. If you're a single woman who wishes to venture out into the wilds you will soon realize willing men to act as escorts aren't always to be found, especially if they know they will get nothing in return. Yes, you know what I mean. And don't look that way, because even if you're a guy, you know this is true!

I was lucky one summer to have the friendship of a lesbian who like me, loved to fish. But I just enjoy being around natural water. Take me sailing, fishing or snorkeling, there is nothing more freeing than enjoying untamed nature. Water can't be tamed, though we might think we have control of it with our man-made dams and lakes. But, if you throw a torrential season of thunderstorms onto that, we soon find it's the water that controls us.

But anyway, for one summer, with Jules by my side, I was able to experience what it was like to explore nature as a fisher(wo)man without restrictions. Jules and I would fish after work, late into the evening and often continue into the early morning. We'd trek across fields after dark to find fishing holes. We'd park on the side of roads and sit under bridges. No body of water was off limits if it looked like it might be a good hole for catfish.

There is one excursion that always makes me smile when I think back on it. One of our co-workers hosted an annual mid-summer hog fry, which with my invite we both attended. I remember the sky that day. It was beautiful, vast and blue accented with fluffy, dreamy clouds. We were sitting under a shade tree exchanging stories with various acquaintances and on the front porch were about six men--three with fiddles, three with guitars--strumming, stringing, and singing western songs that brought me memories of my grandfather.

Everyone knew Jules and I were close, and together, I felt there wasn't anything that the two of us couldn't conquer. I'll admit, sometimes that facet of our friendship could cause us to find ourselves in some tricky situations, but it was never dull and it was almost always fun. One of the best elements of my friendship with Jules was that together we were impulsive, and at around 5 pm while everyone was just settling in for an evening of music and drinking the urge to go fishing struck us, and we were off to the lake.

We had a favorite spot. We had made various fishing buddies at our favorite spot. In fact, Jules had almost made a boyfriend at this spot but she ended up refusing him. I think she enjoyed the game. We had sat through rain and whole nights at this spot, and it was known by anyone who frequented the area that this was our spot. Fortunately, on this night it was also vacant so we unloaded the car, packed everything on our bodies, made our way down the steep, rocky banks of our cove and eventually found ourselves seated quietly with our poles toward the water enjoying the sounds of the outdoors. Julie was by nature a loud, sometimes obnoxious gal, but when we were fishing, she became quiet.

As the sun began to set, I felt a small nudge and a hard pull. I yanked my pole and began reeling. I told Jules it was a big one. She hustled to the edge of the water for an informal meet and greet with our feisty catch. When he came splashing ashore she wrestled him in and ended up on top of him. I ran to her with the stringer and it took both of us to get control of the situation. He was not a happy cat and he let his anger and strength be known. By his size it was obvious he had spent years avoiding this fate. We estimated he weighed between 12 and 15 pounds. His head was large enough to put a whole hand in his mouth, which Jules did, becoming surprised when he clamped down. The excitement adrenalized us and we settled back in for what was sure to be an active night.

For the next three hours we didn’t catch a thing. To appease her restlessness Jules would break the silence to comment on how big “Junior” was and she would visualize how she was going to catch his sister. And all this time she had been drinking beer.

I had known early into our friendship that Jules more than liked her beer. Since I was driving I had quit early on. But now it had gotten dark and cold. The night wind was drying my sinuses and the alcohol from earlier seemed to only be adding to my discomfort. I decided to go to the store to get us something to eat along with a Pepsi for myself. I also wanted to get the jacket and rain slicker out of the car to keep us warm.

When I returned I could tell that she had reached her alcohol limit because everything she said was getting on my nerves. I just sat quiet, sipping my Pepsi--until she tangled her line into my line, a rookie mistake a more sober Jules would not have made. She was also sitting too close to me. She started to stand up to get us untangled, but she never made it to an erect position. Instead, I watched her crumble down into the large rocks of our steep bank, her body rolling into two open beers (neither was mine), the tackle bag and my Pepsi. I think I cursed at her as she was struggling and wallowing in the beer and Pepsi mess just below me, trying to get her bearings about her.

When she finally got settled back in, she cracked open another beer. “You really think you need that?” I asked.

“Nope,” she answered. She poured it out and asked if that made me feel better, to which I replied in the affirmative. But it didn’t make me feel better. My Pepsi was gone and my rain slicker, which she was wearing, was muddy and smelled of mixed drinks.

Around 11 pm I told her I was packing it up. After we got everything to the car I went back down to the water to fetch Junior, who had been actively thrashing and threatening us the whole time. I pulled him from his home and passed him up the bank to my friend. As I was crawling up I heard a noise and looked up in time to see the backside of Jules rapidly descending upon me. I put my hands up to stop her, catching her rear, and she kept struggling to get back up like a trucks tires stuck in mud.

I told her to hand me Junior but she ignored me and kept trying to climb with him. I grabbed the back of her jacket and said a bit more sternly, “Give me my damn fish.” I snatched the stringer from her hands and climbed up past her. If she had fallen back into the water I thought I wouldn't have turned around for her. At least, at that moment I liked thinking I wouldn't have. It was a fun thought, even if I knew it lacked truth.

Once we had everything packed I put Junior on the pavement and backed the car up to turn on the headlights. We shot some pictures with him and then I filleted him as Jules quietly watched. On most occasions we filleted our catches as a team, but I think she was starting to sober up and had enough sense to know it was time to let me have my space.

On the drive back to the city I stopped at a convenience store for a better cleaning than the lake water offered. The scent of fish guts on my hands was more than I could bare. Jules obediently followed me inside and purchased a fountain drink while she waited her turn for the restroom.

As I was digging for change to pay for my fountain drink I noticed the clerk looking at Jules standing behind me and I smiled. I’m sure we were a beautiful sight. My pants were wet from the knees down, my tennis shoes were soaked and untied, my long hair was a mess from the wind; my sweater was striped, but the shirt underneath was plaid, and I had fish scales in my eyebrows (from the shad). Jules wasn't fairing any better: she smelled like a brewery and adorned mud all over her pants from rolling in soda and beer, her hair was disheveled as well, the raincoat she wore was in same condition as her pants and she wore shiny gold hoop earrings that didn’t make sense compared to the rest of her. But when you took the sum parts of us and made them whole? We were both damn satisfied.

Jules has since moved to Florida, and I'm sure she's enjoying catching even bigger fish out there, but I'll never forget her and the summer she taught me how to live freely, despite the obstacles that women must overcome to enjoy that freedom. Sure, she had her imperfections, but hers were a lot easier to swallow than the sexist judgments often bestowed on us by the opposite sex. From her I learned diamonds are not a girl's best friend. Lesbians are.

On the morning I was to be in court to extend the protective order I also had to be in orientation to learn what I was to do in return for receiving state assistance.  Somewhere I had put the notion in my mind that the orientation was going to be quick, lasting only an hour and a half.

A social worker announced the room was open for all orientation attendees.  I sat down in a grungy room, finding myself among several other women who were sailing similar vessels, though I'm sure some were crossing stormier seas.  One had brought her young child.  We were told not to bring our children, which is why the state was paying for our daycare.

"Ms. Alexandria gonna throw a fit when she see you brought that child in here," stated one of my classmates.

The woman with the child had a masculine jaw line.  She wore no makeup, her eyebrows could have used a good manicure and her sandy hair draped the middle of her back.  She reminded me of a guy I once dated.

As she shuffled her child and her belongings around the seat in front of her she replied, "Well, she's going to have to accept it because I'm homeless and I ain't got no where else to take her."

Turns out she was over-confident. Ms. Alexandria threw that fit and made her leave, but not before having to provide her with bus passes so she could get back to the Salvation Army shelter where she was staying.

Once homeless was taken care of, Ms. Alexandria started handing out sheets we were going to review during the course.   We were already a quarter into the hour and she mentioned something about when we break for lunch.  My court appointment was just an hour away.  Lunch was three hours away.  I felt guilty as I explained my predicament.  With much annoyance from our leader I was dismissed as well.

I wasn't prepared for the court hearing because I'd never been through a protective order process and I can't afford an attorney.  I was winging it.  The only person who had even slightly prepared me was my counselor who felt it was best that I continue with the order until the criminal investigation was over.  Then we also discussed what might get us to supervised visitation once the investigation was over.  She was a good source of information that I desperately needed.

My counselor and I agreed I would return in a month.  I thought I was doing well and remaining strong.  Perhaps she agreed.  I'm not sure.

The judge was the same judge that had granted me the first protective order and she didn't hesitate to extend it another 90 days for me and the children due to the criminal investigation that was ongoing.  He was there and she asked him if he understood.  His voice quivered when he answered, "Yes."  That was the only word I heard from him that day, though I could tell he wanted to say more when I saw him outside the courthouse prior to the hearing.  He saw me first.  I looked up and he was looking at me, his face crumpled in what I guess was supposed to be emotional pain.

I've stayed busy, trying not to focus on the investigation.  The state has kept me busy, too, requiring me to record the hours I spend job hunting and provide proof of employers I am contacting.  This past week I made up that day in orientation, followed by a day of test taking to assess my skill levels and job placement probability.

Homeless had also returned for orientation and testing.  I didn't speak to her that first day, but on test day she made sure our paths crossed a bit closer when we were dismissed for a half hour lunch.  I had brought my lunch.  I went to my car to listen to the radio while I enjoyed my salad, cottage cheese and yogurt.  I was just opening my cooler when I was interrupted by rapping on the passenger side window.  I looked up and it was homeless.  I rolled down the window.

"Mind if I join you?" she asked.  I think my surprise was apparent and perhaps my jaw had dropped because before I could answer she asked again: "Can I join you?  It's cold out here!"

"Uh, sure," I answered and unlocked the door for her.  As she settled in she was holding a pack of cigarettes.  I could see from the placement of her fingers one was eager to be removed from the pack.

"Do you mind?" she asked.

"Well, I have the babies' car seats in here and I don't want them smelling like smoke."

"I understand.  I have babies, too."  She let the window down all the way and stuck her head and half her torso out it.  "What if I smoke like this?"

The desperation of a smoker is a a powerful thing.  "That's fine," I gave.

We spent that half hour discussing her accommodations at the shelter.  She complained of having to rise at 5 am and being rushed out for the day.  Then if she didn't return by 7:30 pm she would be locked out for the night.  I explained to her that if it was like a Holiday Inn people wouldn't have a reason to get back on their feet and she was lucky to have what she did.  She and her family did, after all, have their own private room.  She conceded that I was right.

I found her situation fascinating.  I was tempted to ask if I could come see it, but I didn't want a new friend.  The last thing I needed was someone needy needing me.  We would both sink.

The last time I saw her was the next day at our drug-screening. A couple of the girls who had been in orientation and testing were also there, along with a young pregnant woman I had never seen before.  She was beautiful because of her youth, which granted her smooth dark skin and a taut physique.  She was majestic in how she sat, her hoodie pulled to the top of her head, the rest hugging her small growing belly with her arms folded across and her back straight.

While we waited for the screening she spoke softly about the two cousins she'd lost in the last year--the first shot by a policeman who mistakenly thought he was pulling a gun, and the second whose body was found decaying in a wooded area, the exact location she didn't know, but she was attending the funeral the following day.

What different worlds we all lived in.

If we passed the pre-screening we wouldn't have to take a pee test.  The pre-screening was a two-sided sheet of paper.  The front side seemed to be a mental evaluation and the back side consisted of a billion yes or no questions, basically asking the same four questions in different ways.

One of the questions asked if I often see images from a traumatic event in my life.  I answered no.  I lied, but only because I was in denial.  I told myself I was not traumatized.

I was the only one of us who passed the pre-screen.  I felt guilty as I said farewell to homeless and the others--guilty because perhaps my disastrous life couldn't even touch their experiences.  I didn't want to dwell on what could have been worse.

Since then, I have realized that I have been suffering emotionally during the times that I am alone, like on the drive downtown in search of employment after dropping the babies at daycare.  I'm looking at the road in front of me, but I see him, knelt down in front of the bathroom door.  He's pathetic--like a drug addict--he has no self control.  He looks up at me, surprised I'm suddenly there.  The memory is so real and the tears just burst.  And I hate him with everything in me because he's so weak and disgusting and he did this to our family.

There are no nice words to describe him anymore, but I'll refrain from using the really bad ones.

Then this morning I'm alone and I see him again.  And again.  And the disgust and anxiety overtake me.  I'm alone and I question who I was living with.  I was always alone.  Perhaps I am traumatized.  I want to talk to my counselor, but the appointment is still two and a half weeks away.

As I write this I see him and my eyes have become wet.

My world isn't that much different from those other needy women I met last week.  Isn't that why our paths have crossed?  We have no choice but to keep sailing and pray we find calmer water ahead.  And a nicer vessel.

I recently removed someone from my Facebook friends list because he made a racist remark.  I don't draw anymore lines to be crossed for racists.  If you're racist you're out of my circle.

But what led to that remark was a photo he posted of his shopping cart while he was in line at the supermarket.  I commented that I also liked Grape Nuts.  What I didn't realize until some comments following mine was that his photo was not meant to capture what was in his cart, but what he assumed about the people in line ahead of him.

In the photo caption he remarked he was glad he worked and was able to pay for his own food.  The comments conversation evolved into a discussion about the people ahead of him, who he and the other commentors assumed were purchasing their food through welfare.  I argued with him that sometimes people find themselves in situations they aren't prepared to be in, and he commented that if he had to shovel shit at the kennel he would because he was better than any person that took government handouts.

Okay.  He is entitled to that opinion.  He and I obviously don't see eye to eye.  I didn't like his stance on the subject, but I can't agree with everyone, and I usually agree with very few in this state.  Then he likened what he saw to an episode of Good Times and that's when I unchecked the "friends" box.

Well, I'm glad he is no longer a Facebook friend, or real friend for that matter, since I now find myself relying on government assistance to make ends meet.  Yes, it's nice when you find yourself in a situation where you need employment immediately and you can hop right into another job because you don't have to arrange for daycare, or because you can accept any shift because you're not responsible to minors in the evening when child care centers are closed.  It's nice when your children are grown and you are responsible for no one but yourself, because you have a lot more freedom to choose.  It's nice when you're a man and there are an abundance of manufacturing jobs available to you, and because of your physique there are more opportunities period.  I don't have all of those luxuries.  My opportunities are less than half of that, but I'm trying.

I'm not proud of my situation.  In fact, I'm a little ashamed.  But I'm also ashamed of how I got here even if the fault is not my own.  I don't offer information on my situation to anyone but my family.  I've been in this situation for going on a month now but I feel like work is on the horizon.  I have some good leads and good people who are rooting for me.  I just have to have patience.