Balance

Last night was rough.  V read my cousin's message, and talked me through some of it, and I made it to bed without crying.  This morning, we woke up to find that Offbeat Bride featured our wedding.  The comments are still coming in about how beautiful we were, how perfect everything was, and how it's our families' loss for not wanting to be involved.

Life does balance out.  I just need to remember that on the downswings.

Cute anecdote to end with: At the playground today, a boy, roughly age four, was talking to the twins.  They did their usual staring back silently, but by a few minutes later he was on the other side of the playground.  Lilly looked at me and asked, "Where little boy go?" and when I told her I didn't know, she yelled across the playset, "Little boy!!!"  I almost doubled over laughing, and tried to explain to her that he wouldn't answer to that.  And there's your dose of cute.

Bursting bubbles

I've finally gotten so far inside my happy bubble that I forgot the pain of being told my marriage isn't right, true, or valid.  I knew this day would come, and I always wanted to be at the place of such certainty about V and me, but the corollary to that place is the reality that I'm exposing myself to the same pain that I fought for months and years and finally overcame.

A cousin of mine is getting married in a few months, one close to my own age, whom I've always been somewhat close to.  I was invited to the wedding, not V, and I sent her a message on Facebook (we already had a string going) casually saying I wasn't aware that cousin's spouses weren't invited.  Passive aggressive?  Maybe.  But if she was going to discriminate, I wanted her to own up to it.

I got a message back tonight.  It's long.  It explains, politely and "in love," how God's plan for marriage is a man and a woman, and part of the purpose is procreation.  It admits that I've probably heard it all before.  It clarifies that space is limited, and so only those who are married according to her (and her fiance's) definition of marriage can come.

I'm hurt.  I'm trying not to think about it, because I don't have the energy to cry (and because I'm two glasses of wine in), but I guess I'm undoing all that good by writing about it.  I'm angry.  I'm angry that someone can make me feel this way.  I'm angry that this isn't over yet.  I'm angry because I know it never will be.  But mostly, I just have that hollow feeling in my chest, the defeated one that tells me I'll always be fighting, that there will always be someone - someone close to me - ready to tell me I'm wrong.  And so, I start crying.

War wounds

Bug has a violent streak lately.  Out of nowhere, she'll kick, hit, or scratch someone - the dog, baby Andrew, and, as of today, me.  I sat down on the floor next to her, and next thing I know, she raked her razor-sharp nails down my face.  Thankfully the only part that bled was a tiny scratch above my lip; otherwise, I don't look damaged.

Her mom and I sat there, dumbfounded, for a second, before she yanked Bug over to time out.  I ran to the mirror, checked that I was still alive, and came back to play with the baby.  I was not about to interact with Bug at the moment.

Speaking of, in an attempt to get out of timeout on the stairs, she banged her head against the floor on purpose a few times, then started crying for Mommy.  Her mother - I love her - totally ignored her and kept flipping through her coupons.  Eventually I got an apology from Bug, and she even brought me flowers when she and her mom went out on a walk.  I stayed home and played with adorable Andrew.

So, yes.  A scratch above my lip.  It hurts to smile - which is so not fair.  After how awesome our apartment looks with the cleaning V and I did this afternoon, I want to smile.

The dreaded sniffles

The twins are sick again.  Runny noses, coughs, medicine as soon as they wake up.  If I hear "nose running!" one more time, I think I might scream - and I'm sure I'll hear it lots on Thursday and Friday.  Though tomorrow I watch Bug, and she's known for a perpetual runny nose that she won't let anyone wipe.  Which is probably worse.

Other than that, there isn't too much going on in my world.  Today is V's and my one month anniversary, though I forgot that till she mentioned it about half an hour ago.  I'm attempting to make bread from scratch for the first time; she's attempting to hang our teacups.  This house needs a lot of help.  It's a mess.

My sister-in-law had her baby girl today.  I feel so disconnected from my family; I got a text when she was born, and I've seen pictures on Facebook, but it doesn't really resonate with me.  I feel guilty about that.  At the same time, I don't want to worry about caring, or making myself care.  It's just like some people I know, whom I like, whom I see on occasional holidays.

I'd better go before this turns into blog therapy.

Planning parenthood

Is the title a reference to Planned Parenthood?  Yes.  V and I just came back from volunteering there, making condom-and-info packets to give out at various events.  As she said on the way home, as semi-monogamous, mostly-lesbians, we've never been around so many condoms.

And of course, if I'm mentioning Planned Parenthood, I'm going to have to talk about the defunding campaign.  I don't get into politics on this blog (nor, really, in real life).  But this isn't about politics; it's about families.  That's where I do get involved, and easily frustrated.

Lesbian and gay families have to plan parenthood, in most cases.  We need surrogates and sperm and fertility clinics.  Straight families have the opposite "problem."  They need birth control and the morning after pill.  Sometimes, they need abortions.

Am I a personal fan of abortions?  No.  Do I think they should be available?  Absolutely.
But this isn't about abortions.  It's about Planned Parenthood, and, contrary to what some people declare, that name isn't synonymous with abortion.  It's more synonymous with condom packets and breast cancer screenings.  It's about keeping women healthy, and helping them do exactly what their name says: plan parenthood.

We gays are forced to plan parenthood.  Sometimes the straight folks need a little help.
So how about we continue to give them that help, and keep everyone healthy?
Four colorful Durex condoms at a time.

Marriage, by V

V and I both are on various email lists, and Freedom to Marry sent out an email earlier with this link.  They are calling for stories to pass on to President Obama along with their petition for, naturally, the freedom to marry.  When I came home from watching the twins this morning (told you my schedule was strange this week), V told me she'd submitted a story.  After she read it to me, I asked her if I could post it here; here are my incredible wife's words.

At twenty-two years old, I will admit that I haven't seen much of the world.  I don't know many of the things that come with age or trial and error.  There is still much I am learning.  How to do my taxes; how to pay student loans and rent; how to pursue what I want in life.  But the most important thing I'm learning--is how to be a good spouse. 

My now wife and I traveled nine hours to Washington, D.C. four weeks ago, and in front of our closest friends, we declared our love, support, and steadfastness to each other.  We exchanged rings, held hands, and joined souls.  Our families were not present because we both come from conservative religious households. 

Our love has been a struggle.  A fight.  A war at times.  But never between ourselves.  We battle our families, our faith, and our government.  Filing taxes was a formidable reminder that in the eyes of the government, I am single.  Many married people choose to file their taxes separately, but I do not have that choice.

As my wife and I drove home from D.C., we were anxious about crossing the border from Maryland into West Virginia--from a state which recognizes same-sex marriage, to one that doesn't.  Would we feel different?  Would we feel that our marriage had been futile?  We held hands as we drove across the border, apprehensive.  But our love, our newlywed giddiness, and our marriage, remained.

Our marriage.  It is a reminder, a beacon, a shelter.  We are committed.  We are bound from here to eternity.  And we are going farther together, than we ever could have alone.

Volume

Last night, the twins' mom asked me if, when I'm trying to get the twins to listen, I tap by my ear.  I told her I didn't think so...then I told her it might be one of those things I do subconsciously and don't know, because there are lots of those...then I tried doing it, and it felt perfectly natural.  We laughed and decided it must be common for me.  Apparently they've picked it up now, and it's adorable (of course).

Their mom's words were, "When I'm trying to get them to listen, I tend to just say 'Listen!' but this is a very soft gesture, and you're a soft person."  I find that characterization interesting, but I like it.  So many times, people go louder to get attention.  I'm not trying to extrapolate into metaphor (though it probably wouldn't be too hard), but think about it: when kids aren't listening to you, many times the natural reaction is to be louder so they'll hear and pay attention.

One of the things I've found with younger kids, though, is that they do want to hear you.  They may not like what they hear, but they want to know what you're saying.  With Patrick and Lilly (and Bug, and many toddlers), it's so much more effective to get as close to their level as I can, tap my ear (apparently!), and say softly, "Listen to me please."  There seems to be a natural curiosity or cooperation that quiets them down, at least for half a second, to see if they can hear you.

I'm not soft-spoken by any means.  I'm not always particularly gentle, either.  And I definitely fail at being passive.  But with toddlers and preschoolers, soft and gentle seems to be the key, at least for the ones I know.  A steady voice, repeating itself calmly, is much more likely to achieve the desired results than an escalating volume and pitch.