Bess Kercher | Page 3

HB2 translations for those who don’t speak out of the left side of their mouths

Earlier this summer I read that a group of liberals and conservatives called the North Carolina Leadership Forum met to try to engage in respectful debate around important issues that affect citizens in this state. I suspect they were successful because they weren’t seeking a compromise in their positions; each was encouraged to articulate his side passionately, which they all seemed well-equipped to do.

Not so much those who have attempted to reach across the aisle recently – especially when it comes to the infamous House Bill 2. I have lost count of the cringe-inducing justifications for the controversial law that ironically were meant to temper the fury over HB2, with supporters offering what they perceive to be commonsense arguments for the bill. That’s when it occurred to me: those folks just don’t speak liberal.

I am sure the reverse is true; I’d like to apologize to those I may have offended on occasion by inadvertently slaughtering the conservative cause. Sadly, I am not equipped to speak eloquently to those principles -but I am fluent on the other side. So for those conservative friends who want to engage in a productive conversation around this issue, but feel like they they aren’t being heard, please see a few basic translations below:

You say:

This bill is needed to protect women and children.

Oh boy. Buckle up. Your daddy just got in the driver’s seat and he is going to take you on a bumpy ride back in time. That deja-vous-y feeling that liberals just got? It’s because we remember that throughout the ages all kinds of discrimination has been justified by claims that it was necessary to protect “the weaker sex.” African-American males, for example, from the time of slavery and beyond were demonized and disenfranchised based on the fallacy that they put white women in jeopardy. Heck, oppression of women was even justified using this rationale: it wouldn’t be responsible to expose those fragile gals to, say, the rigors of education, or the stress of property ownership, or the strain of participating directly in a democracy.

Like bells sounding the alarm of sexism and possibly worse, you say something about protecting women, no matter how well-meaning, and we hear that the patriarchy is alive and well and going to use the ladies to justify discrimination and oppression.

You say:

This measure is about reducing attacks and child abuse, and supporting survivors of sexual assault.

Well, that sounds wonderful; who could possibly have a problem with this idea? Uh, don’t circle up for the kumbaya moment just yet (probably that’s more likely among us hippie lefties, anyway) because liberals are pulling their hair out and gnashing their teeth in frustration. Why? Because if you look at the facts around sexual assault and child sexual abuse, there are some common themes — but they don’t have anything to do with this law.

Stay with me; I promise I hear you when you say you aren’t suggesting that transgender people are more inclined to assault or abuse – and YAY! We do agree on something. I get that your point is that abusers will pretend to be transgender so they may have a better shot at their prey.

But liberals just can’t get those nagging facts out of their heads: that while we largely theorize about this bathroom cover possibility, we know of other guises that pedophiles use to their advantage. They pose as coaches, pastors, counselors, teachers, babysitters . . . and are most often neighbors, family members, or other trusted individuals. But we would never suggest passing a law to prevent people from coaching – or from ministering – or from teaching, just because those situations allow greater access for those who plan to hurt others. Because it makes no sense to do so. You would punish too many innocent people, and not really prevent the guilty, as they would certainly find other means to inflict their damage. And what about the number of boys who are targeted? This law does not address that dynamic at all. And the fact that predatory behavior in bathrooms and locker rooms always was – and remained – illegal, even after the Charlotte ordinance was passed? Liberals can not reconcile these facts with the stated goals of HB2.

And while we are looking to the realities of sexual assault and abuse, we know that trans people are at a much higher risk of injury. Liberals aren’t trying to be annoying intellectual elitists when they point out that it must be Opposite Day if HB2 is meant to reduce assaults, because instead it will make transgender people much more vulnerable to attack.

Survivors of sexual assault have spoken out on both sides of this issue; each one is the expert of her own situation and her view should be respected as such. It is not unreasonable, however, for liberals to worry that it would be highly traumatic for all parties involved to force someone who looks fully male to be in the women’s bathroom – just because his birth certificate is inconsistent with his current physical appearance.

When you keep saying this is about preventing sexual assault, liberals hear something that sounds like a willful disconnect between speculation and reality.

You say:

The transgender community is just a teeny part of the population. This whole thing isn’t a big deal; Charlotte City Council had a solution in need of a problem.

Oh dear. This is a whopping faux pas to the liberal listener. Did you just say that the bathroom ordinance doesn’t really matter because the community affected is not in the majority? Get the smelling salts! As soon as these liberals come to they are going to start channeling MLK big time. Which is a good and inspiring exercise, but if you are a little confused to hear things like THE ARC OF THE MORAL UNIVERSE IS LONG BUT IT BENDS TOWARDS JUSTICE and DARKNESS CANNOT DRIVE OUT DARKNESS, ONLY LIGHT CAN DO THAT; HATE CANNOT DRIVE OUT HATE, ONLY LOVE CAN DO THAT, don’t be. For liberals this debate points to a larger civil rights issue. So truly, you really don’t want to argue that the original ordinance issue doesn’t matter because it only impacts *those* people and there aren’t that many of them anyway. Especially if you are white and male and economically privileged. Just sayin’. (And yeah, that stinks to be judged unfairly based on who you are. Doesn’t it?)

When you say there wasn’t a problem before the Charlotte ordinance made one up, liberals hear a refusal to acknowledge the often unsafe hostility and discrimination endured by the transgender community.

You say:

I’m a Christian. I don’t want to discriminate, but I am a person of faith who follows the Bible.

You are? No way! Me, too! Seriously, I am also a Christian and I also look to the Bible to try to discern the will of God. Many of your liberal friends empathize with your passion . . . because we share it. Please know that our political positions are often very much informed by our faith.

When you say that people of faith must support HB2, religious liberals hear something that sounds like a hijacking of their own deeply held beliefs.

So, there you have it. A not-so-brief examination of what happens between the words spoken and the words heard. (Of course, it would have been even longer if I’d had to translate talking points regarding the nullification of existing local protections from discrimination, or the removal of local authority to set minimum wage standards – but for some reason no one is taking about those HB2 provisions.) I am sure there are some folks who probably didn’t make it past “liberal” before tuning out. And I mean, really. I just had to go and say stuff like “patriarchy” and “oppression.” For some conservatives I’m sure it was just too much to bear.

But for those of you whom I personally know, and respect, and even love, thanks for allowing me the chance to share how your words are sometimes taken and to be a little silly about it. I know it may appear this exercise sacrificed complex arguments in order to accommodate a one-sided rant but I would welcome the chance to read your own conservative translations on the other side. Because in dealing with such critical issues it seems important that we not only mean what we say, but also say what we mean.

XO,

Mae

This blog from Love Builds Up A World argues that perhaps it’s not a refugee crisis at all . . . but instead a values crisis. Of course, this idea means that it’s not about “them,” it’s about me. And you. And two little boys in donated pink boots. Read about it here.

Want to know the truth about revealing your greatest parenting hits – and misses – to the world in the online version of The Charlotte Observer? I think you can handle it.

The blog series A Few Good Moms: Can you handle the truth? explored the realities of motherhood: Most days as a mom are far from perfect, but truth is, the craziest parenting misadventures often make the very best stories. On the other hand, sometimes a serious take on the truth hurts . . . but those growing pains often get us to a better place.

My MomsCharlotte essays also included parenting tips (from the experts, not me!), cool mom-friendly products, help navigating the election season with your kids, and more.

Listen below to a favorite blog from 2015, A Few Good Moms: Can you handle the truth about BOYS

2016 MomsCharlotte Blogs:

A Few Good Moms: Can you handle the truth about . . .

The 2016 Trump Card 12/18/2016

Thanksliving 11/19/2016

Bearing Witness 10/7/16

Teacher Appreciation 9/6/16

Your Reality Show 8/10/16

Sending Them Packing 7/24/16

Sanctuary During Chaos 7/16/16

A State of Aloha 7/3/16

Summer Throw-back Jam 6/8/16

Busting a Gut 5/27/16

Motherfest Destiny 5/7/16

Purple Rain 4/24/16

Abdication 4/18/16

Conferences 4/10/16

Middle Age 3/20/16

Outlaws 3/8/16

Presidential Politics 2/11/16

Panthers 1/28/16

Diet 1/18/16

The Alien Inside of You 1/10/16

Your Potty Mouth 1/3/16

What’s your score? You know, on your Mom-SAT. What, you don’t KNOW your score? You didn’t know you were being tested? Oh, silly, of course you did. Although in your defense, the components of this test tend to reveal themselves randomly and stealthily. You must be ready at all times.

I have never been a good test-taker.

Like when I had to take the regular SAT for my college admissions applications. The first time I took it in 10^th grade, my 7^th grade brother took it “for fun” and outscored me by a substantial margin. (However, if you asked any of our teachers over the years who was the better student, or – and not to get all brag-tastic here—who was a joy to teach, I have him beat by a mile. As is turns out, knowing it all – and knowing you know it all – by the 7^th grade sets up a challenging dynamic for future instruction. To be fair, he might request we inquire about who wins the teacher’s-pet-fanny-kisser award).

But all of that is the minor league compared to the Maternal Subsistence Achievement Test. For example, let’s work a word problem: Your daughter comes to you saying she doesn’t want to go to basketball practice. You notice that she has been struggling in practice lately and has become withdrawn from her coaches and teammates. You give her a kind but firm pep talk about how she has an obligation to her team; that she made a commitment to play this season, and that she must finish what she starts. Your final answer: You will not let her miss practice that day. You see tears well up in her eyes; then, she throws up all over the rug. The thermometer reading ends your exam for the day: an unhealthy and impressive 102 degrees. FAIL. Good job, Mommy. Now hit that Detention/Study Hall with the Resolve Carpet cleaner . . .

Luckily, the exercise above doesn’t really go to your MomScore (worse, its seared into your heart and then deposited into your Guilt Account at the Mommy Bank – constant deposits, no withdrawals). Public missteps, however, land on your official transcript.

Like my friend who, while perusing the artwork in her daughter’s class on Parent’s Night, was alarmed to read the laminated text framing the information about her family. Next to the line about “My mom” was the damning scoop: “My mom is happy when . . . everyone leaves her alone.” Nice. Extra credit will be necessary for redemption in this case – go ahead and sign up to keep the class during the Teacher Appreciation Luncheon next month.

You can guess my reaction, then, when my son brought home the POP QUIZ – I mean, the MILESTONES ASSIGNMENT – for his third grade class. All I had to do was provide an extensive list of the dates of the important milestones throughout his life, along with descriptive details. He would later use this information to create a timeline in computer class. There was even a helpful example from an industrious mom who had done this to perfection (First sound! First solid food! First word! Details and dates, details and dates, details and dates.)

Oh hell.

Here’s the thing. I know that the reason my son doesn’t want to go upstairs to get his socks isn’t because he’s lazy, but because we are all downstairs and he is a little afraid to be up there by himself—although he would never admit it in a million years. I know that his mind is constantly organizing things, taking it all in and assessing what he could make out of any object before him, which is why we have dozens of “presents” created out of the recycling bin and why he loved to make endless parking lots for his toy cars as a toddler. I know that he loved his blue blanket Lamby Lovie to death (literally, left it in tatters by age three). I know his only fear of the Dr.’s office involves the possibility of taking a strep test, which he unfortunately endured several winters in a row. I know that his favorite hero is Harry Potter – and that he understands that JK Rowling is a hero of mine, because she made him love books. I know that he is precise in his understanding of the world, and always has been, twisting himself into knots when someone doesn’t follow the rules or when he perceives he has been wronged. Rigid, unyielding. Maybe a few years will lend themselves to seeing the shades of gray. Maybe not. I know for all his bravado he has a tender heart.

These things do not fit so well on the milestone assignment.

I try not to panic and to not waste time on my utter lack of preparation for this curve ball. No amount of hand-wringing or curses or prayers will bring a detailed baby book into existence. I try not to obsess with the mental image of all of the kids pulling out their milestone sheets in class, glancing around, taking in who has a shameful single sheet in 20-point font with a few lonely lines, and who has multiple pages single-spaced, a smart staple glinting importantly from the top corner. After all, I remind myself, more pages doesn’t equal more love.

Will my son understand this?

I hunker down and just get to it. Try to remember the great advice from Anne Lamott in Bird by Bird about prying yourself out of procrastination paralysis . . . but I get distracted remembering her brilliant take on writing Shitty First Drafts. Huh. Not so helpful in this case.

OK. Breathe. Envision success. Be creative (“Hey, family vacations to the beach with our friends should count, right?”). Be resourceful (“Honey, go get that [dated] T-shirt they gave you when you started Big School”). Use a lifeline, phone a friend (“I know this is going to sound crazy, but do you remember the name of the kids’ very first preschool teacher?”).

And guess what . . . in the end, we put together a respectable three-page list that was pretty cool, and included my son’s first fish caught, his baptism, and his third place showing at his first kids’ triathalon.

You might think this experience sent me straight to the picture drawer to begin my remorseful organizing and labeling, in gratitude for not humiliating my family via my son in front of very single one of his classmates. But no, much like my earlier school days when I squeaked by the Calculus exam, this Hail Mary PASS wasn’t going to change my study habits. I am not sure it would even matter that much if it had, though. Here’s the good news and the bad news: Your Mom Exams are everyday forever. And your scorekeepers are no one and everyone – and, most importantly, yourself.

I heard that some colleges have stopped requiring the SAT for entrance exams. There’s some concern that it doesn’t really reflect what you previously accomplished; it doesn’t accurately predict your chance for future success.

I can see why they would pitch it. It just doesn’t show what you really know.

(this post is a MaeMucho artifact that first appeared on skirt.com)

There was once a time when I might enjoy a bit too much eggnog at a holiday party, grab my better half’s hand, and sneak giggling away into the guest bathroom to steal a little smooch . . . so caught up in the holiday spirit and so aglow and so young and so in love that while I may be able to restrain from PDA, I cannot contain my enthusiasm for a little covert Christmas kiss.

Times have changed.

Or rather I have changed. This is shocking to report, but . . . over the years, with time passing, against all that I have done to prevent it from happening . . . I have grown old. At every turn, I am reminded of all the ways that I am not young anymore. The eyes, the thighs, the creaks and cracks – Lord, it is overwhelming sometimes. Not that I am particularly vain, but when the aging changes lead to changes in how you do your life, rather than how you look doing it, that is cause for concern.

Of course, I still love my dear husband and thank my lucky stars that he is in my life. I see him from across the room at our most recent holiday party and note how handsome he looks in his cashmere sweater and cords. I would grab his hand and go for that stolen kiss, it does cross my mind, except I really have to go . . . If I don’t get to the bathroom soon there’s gonna be a HUGE problem . . . post-kids the bladder just ain’t what it used to be (case in point). So I take it on a slow jog (uh oh, bad idea) I take it on a fast walk down the hall to the bathroom and thankfully its free.

So I try to undress to the extent that I need to in order to pee, and notice there is a little bit of a problem . . . I mean, there is a lot going on with this outfit. And by a lot, I don’t mean Christmas sparkles or jewels, or sexy skin showing, or even holiday-themed stitching and colors. I mean, it was like going through four layers to get to where I could take care of business.

And maybe it was too many glasses of red wine, or perhaps that ill-advised first celebratory glass of bubbly champagne to kick off the evening, but damn if I couldn’t get my dressy ass DRESSED again on the back end. I mean, I was tugging on Spanx, pulling up tights, adjusting underwear, holding the hem of my slip with my teeth, for God’s sake. All the while barely balancing on the high heels of my dressy boots, hoping I didn’t come crashing down into the john once and for all.

And then, THEN there’s the knock on the door . . . and that deja vous–y feeling of panic . . . is it locked? Shit, I did lock it, right? Of course, in the olden days WE would have been embarrassed if someone walked in on us together smooching at the sink. On this night, however, I am mortified to think that someone may open the door to this partially naked, slipping Spanking scene and pass out with horror.

“Just a minute,” I screech, too loudly, too cheerfully, goodness knows what they think I am doing in here, probably cocaine, or maybe taking a hit off some holiday crafting glue (more the speed of the SAHM set), as hyped up as I sound. OK, Mae, get your shit together.

Deep breath. Underwear. Spanx. Tights. Slip. Dress. Breathe again.

Towel off beads of sweat from brow and practice a calm, friendly smile in the mirror. Leave bathroom disaster and head across room to husband, still handsome. Smile for real, grateful, when he reaches for my hand and holds it lightly while talking to friends.

I feel like I have run a marathon. Who knew the holidays could be so exhausting?

Well, really, I take that back. We all know that. And given the breakneck pace combined with the materialism combined with the perfectionist aspirations combined with the decoration extravaganzas it is easy to get overwhelmed. And have the holiday spirit knocked out of you with the force of a sucker punch.

Sometimes you can feel it coming. I knew I was heading towards a raging case of Scroogitis when I was offered the chance to go to a gorgeous Christmas Tree Farm, drink warm cider while taking in the breathtaking mountain sights on a hayride, pick my very own Christmas Tree with my family, and watch as it was cut down before our very eyes . . . and I was VERY HESITANT to jump on this holiday hay wagon. The problem? It was the weekend after Thanksgiving.

“Ummmm, but, it’s Thanksgiving!” I protested to my husband. “I mean, I didn’t have the tree in the mix until at least the first full weekend of December! I’m not ready . . . “

“What do you have to do to be ready?” he asks, “We pick the tree, we cut it down, we bring it home, ta- da! You are ahead of the game!”

How could I adequately explain the craziness that unfolds when it is time to do the tree? The trek up the attic stairs, slowly, dread mounting. At the top I look to the back corner for the boxes. The seemingly endless boxes taped and stacked from the prior year.

That to do the tree means to get the stand, and the lights, the boxes of ornaments, candles, angels, advent wreath, preschool Christmas creations, mantle fare, Christmas books, table decorations, stockings, linens, china . . . .

Yeah, that part sucks, and mostly because it is so COUNTER to what the season is really about. The irony kills me, because this is an important holiday in my faith tradition, and it is absolutely contaminated with all of this stuff.

It brings to mind this awesome painting I have in my bedroom by Sister Louisa (aka Grant Henry), which depicts The Last Supper, but with the addition of several cartoon speech bubbles:

“Separate checks, please!” the first one says.

“That’s ok, I’ll be paying the price for all of you,” Jesus responds, to which a clueless disciple quips, “He’s rich!”

Ahhhh, clueless is right, so very clueless and so very human. Missing the point, the miraculous and impending point, so completely. That’s how I can get to feeling during the crazy Christmas season, so bursting at the seams with stuff.

But let’s face it: the stuff is part of the tradition, there’s no way around it. I used to think that it would take a miracle for me to come to terms with it, but then I remembered Marianne Williamson wrote that a miracle is only a change in perception.

So, okay, fine . . . here goes : As badly as it stinks to feel overwhelmed by that part of it, once it is all said and done and the tree is up and the house is decorated, and the poinsettias frame the fireplace and the lights come on outside once it is dark . . . It really is nice. It touches some part of you that looked at the lights when you were a kid; that balanced on your tippy toes to see the tops of the trees, so excited that it was time to decorate; the anticipation, the love of family, the beautiful music — all of it can be part of bringing you back to where you need to be, where you should have been all along.

All the stuff of tradition — it is possible for it all to work for you, and not against you in your holiday quest – the good, the bad, the ugly (the Spanx! Even the Spanx!) – think of it all as part of your silly, clueless, sometimes marvelous, sometimes mundane, always so very human quest . . . in the end, our very imperfection is made right, and not by ingenious undergarments, or by shiny tinsel, or by holiday treats wrapped up in a bow.

But by something else entirely:

In that region there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. Then an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid; for see – I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord . . . “

Maybe what I need to say is: Thank you . . . for the gift of this crazy, full life.

And all the people said . . . . Amen.

So we were at this really great Christmas party when it happened. Our kids were stuffing Christmas cookies and brownies in their mouths as fast as their little hands would do the deed, and I was across the room, catching up with a girlfriend. I hear my husband’s animated voice, beckoning my sons to come over and meet someone, a family friend of our hosts’. Wow, what an enthusiastic invitation! Just to make the acquaintance of . . . oh.

Uh huh. I see. Just to make the acquaintance of a very beautiful, very bubbly, very very young Carolina Panthers Cheerleader.

There was once a time when this scene would have sent me into a jealous rage; ironically, back in the day when I was closer to her age (a long, LONG way back). I would have huffed and puffed and felt betrayed and humiliated and drank too much and then gotten into a wicked fight over it. But two decades-plus of life and 15 yrs of marriage later, I was more curious bystander than anything else. I watched as my husband loudly and jovially inquired about all of the ins and outs of the Panther’s Top Cat squad – really a dance team more than cheering squad—and tried not to smile as he expressed such utter amazement, such enthusiastic support, such uber-friendly interest in the world of female booty-shakers.

And he kept dragging my boys into this scene – trying to impress upon them who this was; that she danced at the games . . . with the Panthers, wasn’t that SO cool? My youngest, typically, could care less –per usual he was hiding behind his dad and refusing to look this new person in the eye. But my older one got that something was going on here – his eyes darted back and forth in that way he does when he is trying to work things out – looking at his dad, and then smiling sheepishly at his dad’s new best friend. My husband kept saying, “Isn’t this so great? What do YOU think? Don’t you think this is so neat?” and my son kept smiling a little uncertainly but nodding and trying to keep up until FINALLY I can’t take the dance-around anymore and I charge up and clarify, “Isn’t she SO PRETTY?” And he does see that, and smiles wide as I extend my hand and introduce myself.

And then pry Mr. Robinson away and lead him out to the mini-van, and his real life, as he wistfully reminisces about meeting the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders in person when he was ten. Never forgot it. Still has the picture.

The mom adjusts the volume on the radio so she can better hear her mother-in-law’s story about the bridge group she hosted the week prior. They both watch the stoplight that seems to be stuck endlessly on red. Finally it changes – but the car in front of them hesitates. Suddenly a tiny voice rings out from the car seat in the row behind them, like one of the chipmunks singing back up for Alvin, and warbles, “Go, b*#@%!”

You want the truth about your potty mouth? I think you can handle it.

I am all about words. I like all kinds. I like when a descriptive or powerful word really fits a situation. So even though I know better, and I am from the manners-conscious south, and I was raised right . . . I have been known to let a cuss word escape my lips on occasion.

Here’s the thing: there is a time and a place for everything. I absolutely believe that in order to enjoy a respectable, well-adjusted life as an adult in the world, you must embrace that precept when it comes to swearing.

But kids have no sense about that sh . . . stuff. Whereas you can greatly appreciate the importance of not cursing in mixed company (generationally speaking), or at your place of worship, or at school, they just have no clue. In fact, young kids who are attempting to master the art of conversation chatter non-stop, and are happy to repeat any and every word they have ever heard (as well as pass along any amount of information that they know, regardless of its sensitive nature. Just FYI.)

Your first line of defense in this situation is to try to impress upon the young ones that there are different rules for parents and for kids. (Some may argue that your first line of defense is just to not use bad language, but you are a parent. You will be compelled to use it from time to time. Ironically, for this you may thank your sweet children). You may point out that you have a later bedtime, that you pay bills and run a household, and all the other ways you are large and in charge. Drive your point home: Do as I say not as I do.

Hold up . . . actually, scratch that. Don’t do as I say. Or at least don’t say as I say. Just . . . no talking! Because I said so. (See, large and in charge!)

The potty mouth situation is surely made worse by the reality that for many of us, it can be shocking, and embarrassing, and unfortunate when a kid says a naughty word . . . but it can also be pretty funny. (Surely I am not alone in this opinion, right? Hasn’t South Park won, like, five Emmys?)

When my son was a toddler we had a pretty memorable episode with this issue. While on vacation with friends our little guy toddled over to the TV. Suddenly, we heard him say, very distinctly, “Ohhhh sheeeeat.” We cracked up but bit our lips thinking it was a random outburst that just sounded like the real deal. But no, he continued on, changing his inflection to be more and more perfectly accurate . . . if you are an adorable lunatic cussing out your TV set. “Oh, sheeat!” he squealed, smacking the screen and smiling widely. “Oh sheeat, oh sheeat, oh sheeat!”

Of course, we were completely dumbfounded, but once we came to our senses we did what any responsible parent would do; that is, we scrambled around until we found the video camera and recorded his profane frenzy while crying with laughter.

We stopped laughing when he let it rip as he was dropped off at the church nursery. By his grandparents.

If I could offer any advice on this issue I would say: Proceed with caution . . . but proceed. Some might argue that it’s terrible for someone with a masters degree in communication to have a potty mouth, even just occasionally – but perhaps that actually demonstrates my proclivity for finding the perfect word for every situation. Truly expressing yourself during the fairly repressive parenting years may be challenging, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do it; the truth is, happy moms everywhere swear by it.

Want to get a better handle on your potty mouth? Feel vindicated if you have a tendency to curse with this defense of swearing from Time.com, laugh at Lily’s loose lips on Modern Family, and consider the other side of this issue with these reasons not to curse.

(This post originally appeared on MomsCharlotte at Charlotte.com)

I got a passion in my pants and I ain’t afraid to show it. I cannot wait for Valentine’s Day! Do not think that just because I am over 40, the mother of 2 exhaustingly rambunctious boys, and living a glam life of carpools and muddy cleats and dog throw up on the entry way carpet that I am not Marilyn Monroe reincarnated. I’m sexy and I know it.

Underneath these sweats from Costco lives a Victoria’s Secret model clawing to break free. The unwashed hair in the tired brown scrunchie strains against wild tresses that lie in wait, deceptively limp and lifeless, so as to not give away the fact that Angelina Jolie is about to come busting out. I’m sexy and I know it.

Don’t be fooled by the family photos that show a woman with a drawn, tired face with dark circles under her eyes, holding an un-manicured hand up to block her image from the camera. It is all a great façade created to distract you from the video vixen that laughs in the face of JLo, Madonna, Beyonce. If you got a really close glimpse of the Supermodel that is mere millimeters below the surface, ready to roll in the sand and surf half-naked for your viewing pleasure, your eyes would melt out of your face. I’m sexy and I know it.

You think I am really overwhelmed in my cardio funk class or my Hip-hop abs video work-out; you are concerned by my torturous moans and groans and sailor-worthy cussing during Pilates; you want to call 911 when you see me doing my slow-mo run around the Booty Loop. My gasping for air and sweat-drenched body is all trickery to conceal my true nature. Confronted by my sheer animal physicality you might just have a heart attack and fall to the floor dead in front of me.

I’m sexy and I know it ( I work out).

So don’t even try to imagine what my Valentine’s Day is going to be like with that married man I’m hanging with, because if you do your head might explode into a million little pieces. Or – you might look at him and see a receding hairline with a touch of gray, a slight build, and few wrinkles around the eyes. What you don’t realize is that underneath that preppy suburban dad disguise is a lethal combination of George Clooney, Bradley Cooper, and Rocky Balboa (sorry, teen crush) who will be romancing me all night long.

What, you don’t see it? Man, that’s sad. Can’t say I’m surprised; it is what is to be expected if you look at him with those mere mortal eyes. When close to that hunk I am overwhelmed by the tsunami of attraction that snaps and sparks and threatens to create an actual electrical current in the air that will fry anything within a hundred mile radius of the two of us.

Sexy, right? Yeah. I know.

A version of this post originally appeared on skirt.com.

LET US NOT SQUANDER WHAT WE HAVE BEEN GIVEN

There are so many compelling opportunities to make a difference. We can’t do everything, but we can always do something. Get involved!

PSTRONG FOUNDATION EVENT – “An Evening in Hollywood”

MARCH 6, 2015

The P Strong foundation was created by friends of Pattie Iannitti after she was diagnosed with a rare abdominal cancer. The foundation raises money for research into better treatment options for those battling rare and unusual cancers. For more information about P Strong, to make a gift, or for further information about the upcoming event in March, please click here.

The following essay was part of a series that appeared on MomsCharlotte to promote PStrong’s inaugural event last year:

PATTIE’S STORY

I wear a charm necklace with pieces that celebrate the unfolding of my life. The heart charm for my husband, whom I married 18 years ago this year, is flanked by charms for each of my sons.

Anchoring my family charms is a meaningful addition: a circle with raised letters spelling P STRONG, in honor of my friend Pattie, and her battle with appendiceal cancer.

The shock of Pattie’s situation exploding just as the new normal of Sheri’s experience was setting in felt like whip-lash to my brain. I struggled to reconcile Pattie’s energetic and sunny personality with the news that she was in the hospital after emergency surgery. I could not believe this was happening again.

The friend I had partnered with to write updates about Sheri was now the focus of concern for many friends and relatives hungry for news. Information offers at least the illusion of control and understanding when crisis occurs. Thankfully, soon we were connected through a Caringbridge website.

Initial posts came via Amy, who while at breakfast with Pattie saw her increasingly overcome by abdominal pain. A plan to follow her to the doctor’s office for help was abandoned in favor of going straight to the ER. Tests and surgery revealed a malignancy in her appendix and malignancy in her ovaries. More surgery was required, and further tests, which brought the good news of clear lungs, clear colon, and clear lymph nodes. I devoured the good news hungrily, a welcome and important addendum to the initial diagnosis.

On her Facebook page, Pattie’s husband Dave offered up the empowering idea of P Strong, borrowing from the rally cry after the Boston marathon bombing. This motto felt very right, given Pattie and Dave’s history in and connection to New England. But in addition to this personal parallel, the trauma and tumult in Boston seemed an apt metaphor. What happens when a bomb goes off in your body? In your life?

Many hard things, to be sure: Fourteen days inpatient in the hospital, and six months of chemotherapy. I was so sad that my friend had to face this, so bitter for her difficult road.

But then, I saw a post from Pattie on Caringbridge, describing the gift of a lemon tree from a friend who told her, I brought you this because when life hands you lemons, you have to made lemonade with them. We are going to do that years from now when you are better.

In fact, Pattie’s Caringbridge site began to reflect this premise more and more. Pattie wrote often and eloquently about her experience, her posts an almost daily gift to those of us who read them. At once point she wrote:

My purpose may simply be this: For me to write and you to read my story and learn something from it. You may learn to slow down and appreciate your good health. To be reminded what a blessed community we live in and how much more good in the world there is instead of all the rotten stories we all see or read about in the news. My story may remind you to hug your kids longer, kiss your spouse more, say “I LOVE you”; slow down and enjoy life.

In addition to her reflections, I was so happy to see all of posts that described the love and support that swirled around her. The P Strong bracelets, made by Ginnie and Maria that we could wear in solidarity with our friend. Endless visits from family and neighbors. Julie showing up with milkshakes to help her put the weight back on post-surgery. Pattie’s best friend Dana flying into town. Amelia and Deborah offering support at appointments and chemotherapy. Sheri, now the friend supporting Pattie instead of the friend receiving support, offering the added wisdom of her own recent experience. There were so many people doing so many things. Pattie wrote:

Through this experience, I have seen the best in people . . . the loving texts. The offers of rides and play dates, sending me silly jokes, books and cards. Spending time with me. Sending food and treats. A cheery phone call . . . packages with tshirts and wrist bands . . . a signed momento from the President! It’s the kind of love, support and thoughtfulness from others that astounds me. It just blows me away . . . every single [moment] is teaching me something. I wake up feeling grateful for everything I have. For every person in my life. For this amazing opportunity to see the world through a new set of eyes.

While Pattie’s reflections on Caringbridge offered compelling insight and bravely chronicled her experience, an earlier voice reappeared that began to channel the anger and helplessness of Pattie’s loved ones into action.

Amy, who was with Pattie the day she rushed to the hospital and who posted the first entry on her Caringbridge website, began to grow her own lemon tree of sorts. She wrote again to suggest that everyone wear blue and post pictures of themselves on Facebook and in messages to Pattie to show support on the Mondays when Pattie had chemotherapy. This idea exploded with people from all different parts of the world and from different parts of Pattie’s life happily inundating her on those difficult days.

Amy then posted again to invite folks to a clothing and jewelry show fundraiser. Then, to offer the P Strong charm, the one that I wear today, that she designed and sold to raise additional funds for The P Strong Foundation, a 501(c) 3 she created to raise money for research for improved treatment options for rare cancers like Pattie’s. In June, the P Strong Board, including Sheri, met for the first time.

After her first chemotherapy, Pattie wrote to thank everyone for their blue themed support. She ended her post saying, If I survive this, my wish is to have each and every person who has lifted me up all in one room, meeting each other and celebrating. In other words, a GIANT party! Celebrating life, the gift of friendship and the best of humanity. What a perfect day that would be.

This Friday, March 28th, Pattie will be the guest of honor at a giant party celebrating life and the gift of friendship – the inaugural event of the P Strong Foundation.

This mom is using sports to better understand the game of life! The series Team Mom for MomsCharlotte/Charlotte.com explores how an uncompetitive non-athlete obtains a new outlook on parenting through her experiences as a team mom to her two sons. Maybe it is all fun and games after all!

The following essay appeared in the series:

Team Mom: mad mascots

Now that I really have sports on the brain I’ve noticed that the symbols for teams are everywhere: on clothing, on cups and mugs, stickers on cars, even flags in front of houses. They may cause controversy; someone should tell Shakespeare that apparently there is a lot in a name. There is just no way to overstate the importance of the team mascot. The mascot is your calling card. It sets the tone. It demands respect. Well, usually.

The team mascot is a sore subject in our house. But only because my husband’s high school mascot is . . . well, odd.

I am a proud West Charlotte High School LION. You are probably familiar with the lion, a most noble and fierce beast. No one has to wonder what your deal is when you are a lion. Respect.

My husband’s high school mascot is a red tornado. A regular tornado by itself would have been ok, I guess, but they had to ruin it by making it red.

“Why red?” I ask. “Are you an especially angry, red-faced type tornado? Are the blue tornadoes more like beach breezes? Was purple taken?”

“Hush,” he replies.

Or what, you’re going to whip around me in circles until I spin to my demise?

He really does look irritated. So I try to make it up to him by telling him that actually, I have a real affinity for tornadoes. Because I played one in high school in our senior class play The Wiz. All of the Lettergirls on the dance squad wore silvery blue wispy costumes and tights and waved our arms over Dorothy’s house (constructed on wheels) and spun it around the stage to stormy music, and then parked it in Oz.

So, I am totally connected to the mighty tornado (although silvery blue and gauzy) at heart. I remember us prancing around the stage in all of our teen glory and say, Yeah, I take it back, tornadoes can be really frightening after all.

He is not amused.

Thankfully, we don’t have to reconcile this at home because we have our own family mascot. It is our dog, Maddie.

I think that this is the case for most families with pets, especially four-legged ones with big personalities. The dog or cat becomes the uber-member of the family.

I suspect this is the reason why many guys seem invested in having big dogs. Labs, Shepherds, Goldens, Rottweilers. Like maybe hearty breeds = an intimidating presence. I see evidence for this theory when folks ask us what kind of dog Maddie is. The truth is we don’t really know – we adopted her through the Humane Society. So, she is some kind of mutt, probably.

I look at her and take in the long skinny legs with white boots, the almond button eyes, the markings on her face and tail. The small face paired with a muscular chest. She is maybe 25 pounds. “Boxer/Chihuahua mix?” I guess.

My husband is quick to correct this. “She is a Feist,” he says firmly, referencing a dog we discovered on the Internet when trying to match pictures of her as a puppy with legit breeds. “It’s a hunting dog.”

Hunting, right.

Maybe hunting for trouble. She looks like a cartoon character with one ear up and one ear down at all times, unless they are pressed back against her head because she is leaning into my husband’s face with her eyes averted, so sweet to the Alpha.

She is completely adored by both of my boys. I used to say she came on board as one for the girls’ team, but she really is one of them, fast and strong and energetic and wild. She loves to jump and chase or be chased. She is super- athletic; we watched the Westminster Agility Competition last year and I am convinced she could be a contender. So maybe she is a Feist, although that heritage is not required for her to be a champion. The Westminster Kennel club calls mixed-breeds “All-American” dogs. I think that celebratory moniker is absolutely perfect.

She is smart and sassy. And hugely affectionate. She will curl herself into a little ball so she can snuggle right up against you, circling and circling and finally plopping down with a sigh, a soft and warm temporary appendage.

She is our mascot. Looking at her you can guess a lot about us – mostly what would have happened if we’d had a third kid. I know she represents us, for better or for worse, so I’ll just go ahead and proudly apologize for her/us. That spaz will jump up and kiss you right on the mouth when you see her.

Welcome to Kercher Field.

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