Kathleen Foley's Blog

It is no surprise that military spouse appreciation day comes just before mothers day. As military spouses, we make a lot of sacrifices, just like mothers, often while BEING mothers. So I wanted to share what I did with my day today.

For starters, I woke up early to holler at the kids for hollering at each other. This included their dad, my wonderful spouse in uniform. Talk about insta-bad mood.

Then I went back to sleep, where I slept in to the extremely late hour of 8am. I got up, realized my voice was half gone and scratchy, made some phone calls to clear my schedule, and decided to go to the commissioning ceremony at Texas A&M. Then I checked my email and my FB messages, read a lovely message from someone who thought I was in DC for the Military Spouse of the Year awards (I am the "2014 Marine Corps Undesignated Base Spouse of the Year"), and then I promptly cancelled my plans to go to the commissioning ceremony, much to the dismay of my husband. Then I proceeded to eat three cupcakes and make a pot of coffee. At this point, I turned my ringer off and ignored phone calls and text messages for an hour. I considered brushing my teeth, and then went in search of more cupcakes. Finding none, I posted a negative status update on my Facebook, contemplated logging out and just staying off social media all day, and then remembered that it's my friend, Tim's, birthday. So I posted well wishes on his wall and got caught up watching heart warming videos about homeless people and needy children in Haiti, said a prayer for Mr. Pierre and Mr. Jean (two missionaries my daughter has been praying for ever night for going on 4 years now) and retrieved another cup of coffee. I spent the next hour trying to upload a link to an article I've been working on, contemplated returning some emails, and then decided that I wasn't in any emotional condition to be in contact with the outside world.

Then I got another email congratulating me on my trip to DC (which I am still not on), and I shut down my email.

I worked some more on my article, finally yelling at my computer and just submitting it as is with a quick message to my editor that the link wasn't working for me. Then I looked at pictures from Telling Aggieland, felt a little better, and took a phone call from my sister in law. Day getting much better.

Then I got a Facebook message reminding me to take pictures in DC this time (I forgot last time) and I decided to make lunch. I cooked a full pot of macaroni, ate almost all of it, leaving just enough to stick to the pot but not enough to feed anyone, and left the pot, dirty spoon, and garbage on the counter for the maid. When she gets back from DC, that is.

I exchanged some bitter messages with a friend on FB, received a text message from my husband who, upon realizing that today was Military Spouse Appreciation Day, thanked me for all I do and said he couldn't do it without me. Which is a blatant lie. My husband is friggin Super Man, he can do anything. My presence simply makes it more fun and helps him look better in USMC Ball photos. Then I decided I'd had enough sugar, grabbed a bottle of wine- I mean water- and went back to work.

And when the maid gets back from DC, she's totally fired.

He was born in the early evening. Pink and wrinkly, looking exactly like a Creel from his very first seconds on Earth. He didn't cry, but he did make little sounds, exactly the same as his big sister, so I knew he was just fine. He'd come a bit earlier than expected, but seemed healthy at 7lbs, so it was okay. His original due date was near the end of May, but by February, it had been moved up nearly a month to the end of April. He made his debut April 14th. A full 6 weeks before his original due date. We weren't worried. He was pink and smiley and soft. His teeny little form just made his sister fall in love with him like only a 3 year old big sister can. The first time I changed his diaper and he peed straight into the air, all over the ceiling, and me, just cemented the adoration. Anyone who had the audacity to pee on Mom must just be awesome sauce and cuteness.

He was born still in the amniotic sac, which is called en-caul and is extremely rare. Some Indian beliefs teach that en-caul babies have a 6th sense, and many historical texts reference babies born caul (partially in the amniotic sac) or en-caul as more closely guarded by gods, angels, other paranormal figures. They often refer to caul babies and en-caul babies as "lucky". Russian folklore points to caul babies as having walked past death and wearing armor. There is only a 1 in 80,000 chance of being born caul, and an even more rare is the likelihood of being born en-caul.

He nursed all the time. Like most new mothers, I was worn out and, though I felt like he was nursing far more than normal, I didn't press the subject for fear of being labeled a wimp.

I should have addressed it.

He was starving. Sucking and sucking and never acting as if he'd eaten. I'd been through a similar issue with Bethany. She sucked until I bled- subsequently causing her pediatrician to ask me to consider bottle feeding, which I happily did. But he was nursing fine, I thought. He was eating for an hour at a time, every other hour. At his one week appointment, he'd lost a full pound. A few ounces is normal and acceptable. A full pound in one week is dangerous. His navy nurse practitioner, an overweight wannabe pediatrician with an angry stare and firm hands, labeled him a failure to thrive baby, accused me of refusing to feed him, and from the privacy of her office advised her assistant to call social services and report me for child endangerment.

I walked out of the office, ran to my car, and called my mother to come get Bethany. He was too young to be separated from me, but I couldn't run in the off chance that they showed up and accused me of doing something illegal. So I protected Bethany the best I could and sent her away for two weeks. While she was gone, I secretly quit breast feeding- telling no one- and put him on a straight formula diet.

I was forced to bring him in to see the angry woman every day for two weeks, at which point her assistant would take him from my arms, weigh him naked, and then mutter under her breath about "stupid tag chasers" while she measured his head and his length. Then angry nurse practitioner would come in, berate me for being such a lousy provider, and ask me if I was ready to admit that I was refusing to feed my innocent baby. I would sit silently, stewing, but biding my time. Only I knew that I was feeding him formula, and only I knew that he was sleeping a solid four hours at night since I'd switched him. He was sleeping because his tummy was finally full. But I wasn't going to tell them that, I was just going to wait until they could see it themselves. By the time he turned 3 weeks, he'd gained his birth weight back. The fourth week he put on a pound in one week. By the time he was four months old- he was in the 90th percentile for his weight and 30th for his height. Its no secret that half the Creels are short people.

Against the wishes of his nurse practitioner, I had my breast milk tested. The results were devastating: I would have been providing him more nutrition by simply giving him water. For whatever reason- my body simply wasn't sending what I was eating to my breast milk. Despite her best efforts, he thrived when I did what I knew was best for him.

And Zach has been thriving ever since.

Maybe he is guarded by angels. He certainly walked past death and smiled at it.

Today we celebrated 7 years since Zach gave me a history lesson and taught me how to see past professional opinion to make the best choices for my kids. Today, we're still on a path where he seems to be walking past adversity, wearing his Star Wars armor and smiling for all the world to see.

And I can see I have many more lessons to learn from him.

the edited version of this article originally appeared in Military Spouse Magazine. They have graciously allowed me to share it, in it's entirety, here. You can catch the edited version here. Hashtags from the Homefront

            January 15th, I sent out one of about 900 tweets with the hashtag “#keepyourpromise” along with another one I’d seen that I liked, “#homefrontrising”. Within moments, I had a reply from one of my followers, Lori Volkman, with an invitation I couldn’t pass up- join us in Washington DC mid-February for a political summit. Me? Country Katie without even a college degree? Yes, she’d certainly meant me. I’d already decided to go back to school and pursue some sort of place in politics, but was now really the time to hop on a plane and go to DC? Apparently it was because I went, I didn’t get mugged, and I made it out of both DC and Baltimore unscathed. I even learned a thing or two while I was there.

Boots on the Capital

            Like any woman, I really worried about what to wear to DC. Just when I ‘d settled on a respectable skirt and blouse combo with easy to walk in nude pumps and pantyhose- the eastern seaboard rudely decided to have an impromptu Christmas party- two months late- and began dumping snow and ice everywhere. This southern girl- flying in from our current duty station in central Texas- knew that cold weather was most definitely not going to permit her to wear heels and a skirt. So I did what any girl in my position would do: I packed slacks and took a Facebook poll of my friends to determine if boots were acceptable and, if so, which boots? The general consensus among my “business class” ladies was that boots were acceptable, but NOT my cowboy boots. After a lot of deliberation, I decided perhaps DC needed cowboy boots at the Capital. I got lots of compliments, teaching me that perhaps I do have acceptable ideas- even if they are voted down by my friends. I also decided that, if I ever went back to DC, I would make an effort to do what everyone was not doing because, let’s face it, going against the grain sometimes just needs to happen.

An adventure even a Baggins would be proud of

            I began my adventure at 5am the day before the event. I got up, poured some coffee in my face, brushed my teeth, cringed at my hair, and climbed in to my husband’s smelly old Jeep to make the four hour drive to DFW in Dallas. Ten minutes into my drive in the pitch black, freezing night air, my iPhone, apparently in direct line of the hot air blasting from the vents, overheated and turned off, causing me to swerve off the road to wait for it to cool down so I could turn my navigator back on. When it took longer than five minutes to come on, I rolled down my window and set it on top of the Jeep in the 20 degree wind. It booted up in no time and I was on my way; after adjusting the unfamiliar vents to keep the heater from killing it again. Twenty minutes down the road my heart jumped into my throat and I almost died. I fought the impulse to slam on the breaks, throw out a beautiful 180, and hightail it home. In front of me -I swear to Jesus- in the middle of nowhere Texas was a giant flame on top of a 30 foot tower. There were no lights around it, nothing to indicate it had any use what-so-ever, and no darkened buildings to suggest it was a refinery. It was just this random, scary as crap, flame, flickering in the middle of the night and making me wonder if my rare, handcrafted, hand stamped wedding band was secretly one of the Rings of Power and I’d just unknowingly driven right into the center of Mordor. Never mind that there wasn’t a giant eye in the middle of the flame. I was tired and cranky and cold and it was 5AM for Pete’s sake! As it turns out, it was not Mordor and I don’t possess the One Ring. I still don’t know what it was, and I haven’t had the courage to drive back out there at night to take a picture. Maybe by the time this hits the internet I’ll have gone back out.

I forgot I hate flying

            I always forget, until the plane is on the runway and the engine is revving up, about to suddenly catapult itself down the run way and up into the wild blue yonder, that I am afraid of flying. Well, not flying so much as the death defying launch down the long stretch of asphalt and then the stomach churning climb through the city skies, right into the clouds that rattle the plane until I think I might need to check my drawers. So I’m afraid of take-off, pretty much. Once we’re in the air and the ride is smooth, I’m a cool cat. Seriously. But when the engine starts changing pitch and I can feel the massive vibrations begin to shudder through the plane, the Southern Baptist in me wakes up and I start praying. “Dear Jesus, wrap your arms around this plane! Don’t let there be any terrorists on here, Jesus and if there are let them die right now and deliver us safely to the airport of Your choosing. Sweet Baby Jesus, don’t let me die a fiery death!” Yes. Yes, I really do pray this while my body is being hurled through the air at breakneck speed. Don’t judge. This trip was no exception. The weather wasn’t as pleasant as normal, so all four take-offs I experienced were far bumpier. I totally tacked on a few extras like “praise Jesus!” and “Dear God, I’ve still got so much living to do!” for safe measure. Good news: He was listening.

Commuters are lovely people

            I was super fortunate to be able to spend time with my dear friend, founder of A Little Pink in a World of Camo writer and “War Widow”, Rachel Jewell Porto. After picking me up in Baltimore, where I saw the Domino Sugar and Natty Boh Beer signs and the Ravens M&T Stadium (which I’m told are pretty much the most important things to see in Baltimore), we got a tad turned around before safely making our way to Aberdeen. We were a little nervous about me riding the train alone in to DC the next morning because, let’s face it, this country girl gets nervous alone in taxis. However, upon arriving at the Amtrak station, we were confronted with throngs of black suits, brief cases, and wool trench coats. The commuters. Let me just say here that commuters are lovely people, especially when they aren’t the ones driving. I could do that commute. It was an hour long train ride from Aberdeen to Union Station in DC. The gentleman next to me was some sort of accountant. Or maybe a bookie. I don’t really know. He kept mumbling dollar amounts as he furiously typed away on his laptop. The lady across the aisle looked like she’d stepped right from the set of Scandal and perhaps been dressed by Olivia Pope herself. Despite taking me through snowy countryside and over waterways that were frozen solid with sheets of ice across the top, I LOVED the view! I really do despise cold weather and snow, but I kept thinking that, if I could commute on the train, it wouldn’t be so bad. Once we arrived at Union Station, I followed the crowd off the train, being careful to stay in the very middle of the group (I didn’t want to fall off the edge onto the rails and die). I spilled into Union Station and tried to refrain from showing my tourist awe in this place I’ve always wanted to go. Call me silly, but I’ve always really wanted to see Union Station, and the last time I went to DC, I was only 10 and I don’t think we went. I really did expect people in Union Station to be rude and push and shove, especially in that HUGE of a crowd, but like I said, commuters are seriously lovely people.

How many milspouses does it take to send a tweet?

            I think one of my favorite things about the entire summit was the fact that everyone was live tweeting all day. I am a child of the internet, I don’t mind admitting that. While I do all of those normal “wifely” things like clean (ha-ha), cook food (uh huh), and do laundry (ahahahaha! riot!), I also spend a great deal of time on the internet. I am a writer, and any writer can tell you that research is so important to anything he or she writes that many of us will spend more time researching than we do writing. I am no exception to this. A great deal of my time is spent “researching”. Or, as my husband likes to call it “avoiding housework”. As a general rule, while I’m researching, I’m simultaneously on my Facebook and my Twitter. Some of my favorite sources come from old buddies who post military related articles and quotes all day. So to walk into a room with 45 milspouses, most of them attorneys or fellow writers, who were all on twitter and tweeting out some of the most profound quotes and information?! As you can imagine, I was quite beside myself. (To catch some of those tweets, jump on twitter and look up #homefrontrising)

Who you calling a WONK?

            I once had this friend in college who used to call people he found useless “wonks”. The term, to me, always meant someone who was totally preoccupied with pointless things. For example, the kids who were always in the computer lab glued to the screen might’ve been referred to as computer wonks. Today they’re probably known as Bill Gates, but whatev. I specifically remember being asked out by this particular guy but I turned him down because I really wanted to go see how my other friend (who was the layout editor for the Lee Collegian) was doing with this photo he was repairing for a front page article. His response was to call me a newspaper wonk and he never spoke to me again. I’d forgotten all about that guy and his fondness for the word “wonk” until this conference. (Side note- the last I heard, dudely got kicked out of college and teaches martial arts somewhere. Dojo wonk). Anyway. Apparently the word “wonk” isn’t really as bad as he made it sound, because there is an entire group of people who call themselves political wonks. Or policy wonks. So a policy wonk is basically someone who is very familiar with policy, especially concerning politics. In even simpler terms, they are the behind the scenes people who actually know what’s going on, why, how, when, where and with whom. When I left DC, it was with the intense desire to be called a “wonk” again. Who needs to be the politician in the negative limelight (because positive limelight only lasts so long) when you can be behind the scenes getting real work done? I’d rather be a wonk any day.

When milspouses speak

            Let it be known, right here and right now, that when military spouses (men, too!) band together and speak, people stop and listen. Important people. People with busy schedules and no time to stop and listen. When thousands and thousands of military spouses stand up and, in one beautiful voice, speak together, the message is received loud and clear. I was privileged to be among 45 women- 45 milspouses- to hear firsthand that the house voted to repeal the COLA adjustment as a direct result of our voices. It is invigorating and empowering to sit in a building across the street from the Capital Building, caddy corner to the Russell Building (one of the senate buildings) and hear directly from the lips of a congresswoman that our work, our voices, our insistence that we are a force to be reckoned with… the exhilaration that comes from hearing that we’ve won is moving. I wish that every military member who will retire and his or her spouse and his or her children could have been right there in that room to hear the words “I just voted for and helped repeal the COLA adjustment”. To have fought for that and won was just the highlight of the last six months. Let me be clear here. Within the last six months, I wrote and released a novel, I took my first vacation in almost a decade, I witnessed the most beautiful bride I have ever seen in my life get married, and none of that compared to the overwhelming emotion I felt when I heard Congresswoman Duckworth say that the House had just voted to repeal the COLA adjustment. Call me silly. Heck, call me a wonk if you want to! I’m not ashamed to say that winning the COLA battle was a precious victory for us.

Making a difference is easier than you think.

            The single most important lesson that I took from my entire time in DC is that making a difference, getting involved in the direction of our government, is far easier than you might think. Especially for female milspouses. There are entire organizations dedicated to bringing women to the table. Read Kate Reismann’s article on this for more information, but I’m not even kidding. There are groups like She Should Run  and the Women Under Forty PAC  that will help you run for office just because you’re a girl. Take advantage of these! Congresswoman Duckworth, the democrat Representative from Illinois who lost her legs in Iraq, openly invited all of us to run. She outright said she would welcome it, no matter our political affiliation, because women need to be there. I’m just talking to the female spouses here for a minute. Ladies. Washington DC is far too pretty of a city to be controlled by men. Can I just be honest here? I’m a bit sick of seeing men all in control of pretty things. It’s my one major feminist area. Why do they need to control everything that’s pretty and important and powerful? We need to be just as much in control of our country as they do. She’s too important and beautiful to be left in the hands of men who would seek simply to own her. Now to the men. No offense. We love you and respect you and we’ll save you a seat at the table. But it’s time for us ladies to be seated at that table.

New Places, Old Faces

            After my eventful day on The Hill, I went to dinner with an old friend from our time in Jacksonville, NC. We made our way to Alexandria for amazing grilled cheese sandwiches at a little place called Cheesetique and discussed the things I’d learned as well as some of the things brewing around the military- namely women in combat occupational specialties, the development of female tactical gear, the repeal of DADT, deployment tempo, gaining maturity over the years, and how our respective spouses and kids were doing with our current non-traditional military assignments. I was reminded of how tight knit of a community we are. I haven’t seen this particular friend in five years, at least, but it was so easy to fall into comfortable chatter and swing between talk of kids and military policy and education. The evening made me so grateful for the opportunity I have been provided by my husband to be part of the military family. Wrapping up my trip over grilled cheese 1500 miles away from my cozy little kitchen with an old friend was the perfect way to remind me why I was there to begin with: to represent my military family.

Snow is the devil

            I don’t care how you feel about snow. I really don’t. Don’t think me hateful or uncaring. Think of me as cold. Very. Very. Cold. I don’t particularly care if you think snow is beautiful and falls directly from the wings of angels as God’s way of saying He loves you. You’re wrong. Snow is just really cold ash from the pit of hell designed to lay down on our beautiful Earth and kill everything in its sight. It was developed by Satan to deter the living from living. This is why God created the south and San Diego. Because He loves us and He knew that girls like me needed warm air and would choose to live in the dry, deadly, Mojave Desert before they chose to live in places where it snows, He made the south with her Smoky Mountains and her beaches and San Diego with her warm air and fresh ocean breezes. He made the north and let Satan control her snow. I’m convinced of this. So when Satan blows snow down south, particularly to places like Charlotte, NC, all hell breaks loose. I. Am. Not. Kidding. I mean, it only makes sense. Satan comes to town, brings his snow, and sets his little demons loose on the streets. Insert hell on earth. I experienced this trying to fly out of Baltimore. I arrived at the airport a few hours before my 5am flight only to find that it had been cancelled. Nowhere to go, I called the airline to reschedule my flight. They were happy to reschedule me. For the next morning. On a flight that had already been cancelled due to incoming weather. After gathering what brain cells were willing to work before 5am on no coffee, I made a series of phone calls to various people in the airline, annoyed some very rude customer service agents who really shouldn’t be in customer service, got cussed at by a customer service manager- who was unaware she was on speaker phone while I stood at the desk with someone from the airline, I managed to get on standby for a flight that was supposed to leave at the same time my original flight was supposed to land at DFW. I was not complaining. I did manage to get on the flight, much to my relief. I sat next to a gentleman who, I kid you not, lives in the town right next to mine (which is 4 hours away from the airport I was headed to after my layover in Charlotte), recognized me somehow, and turned out to be a former soldier. If you’re reading this all the way in Brenham, sir, I sincerely hope you managed to get home and are enjoying the mid 70’s weather we’re having today. His flight, which was scheduled to leave from Charlotte and go to Houston, was totally cancelled. Upon arriving in Charlotte, I again managed to get put on standby for an earlier flight than I was rescheduled for, and I was fortunate enough to be permitted to board. But then snow happened. While we were boarding, the snow suddenly got worse, covering the runway, forcing tractors to come out and plow the path to the tarmac, and severely altering visibility to nearly nothing. We sat on the tarmac for two hours waiting to leave. After some time, a giant blow dryer had to come by and de-ice the plane. Finally, half of the passengers frozen and hungry and really, really needing to go potty, the airport let us take off. I heard from one of the flight attendants that we were the last plane permitted to leave and that the airport had officially shut down. Mixed with my “please don’t let that guy with the weird eye be a terrorist” prayer while taking off, I threw in a “bless you Baby Jesus for not letting me get stuck in Charlotte”. Still listening. Fist pump.

I learned a few things

            I learned many things while in DC. Some of them might seem silly. For example, The Hill is called that because it sits on top of a hill. Some of them might seem useless. Case in point, the outside of the Hoover building (FBI) really does look like it does on BONES. But then there were secret gems like knowing how to properly shake a hand to give the impression of confidence and how to speak directly to a person to make them feel like the most important person in the room (I’m told that Bill Clinton excels at this- which could explain a lot). I learned that, despite the apparent dysfunction in our government, there are some elected officials who really do have their constituents at heart when voting. I learned that congress is listening to us, they are watching us like hawks because we threatened to take their seats away if they didn’t do their jobs. I learned that we can use our experience as milspouses like superhuman powers (just go with it), creating change where change is necessary and forcing people in powerful positions to adhere to their promises. I learned that we, as military spouses, have a voice that will be heard.

And I learned that sometimes, just speaking up, opens the door to a terrifyingly awesome adventure.

You see, when I joined the Marine Corps 12 years ago, I was underweight. I had to delay going to boot camp because they wouldn't let me in underweight like that. I spent weeks at my moms putting weight on, drinking horrible milk shakes made from Enfamil and whole milk and eating everything I could get my hands on. It took a month and a half to simply put ON ten measly pounds, only to go to boot camp one pound underweight. It was early January, roughly a month ago. Mike (the dear husband) and I were headed to a wedding that weekend and I needed a new dress. My clothes have been slowly getting tighter and tighter, which is to be expected with a mother of three in her thirties. While not fitting in to my clothes was frustrating, I wasn't concerned with my weight at all.
What I was concerned with was my shape. My rear end has been getting wider and my stomach, which used to just show signs of having had children, has gotten... how do I put this? It's horrible. It hangs over my jeans like.. like.. like something that hangs over jeans! I have love handles and... oh my word- a muffin.
Some of you will read this and say, "That's just being a mom! Welcome to the club!" Some of you will say "A real woman has curves." Some of you will think, "You can't hold yourself to impossible standards!" Just hear me out. I know that moms have different bodies than other women. It's a fact of life. We have allowed our bodies to be used as giant incubators that take a harsh beating in order to give life to God's greatest creations- our children. I take great pride in having given birth, and a mom should. I also know that not every woman is built to look like Victoria Secret models. Not every woman has curves in just the right places and toned muscles in the rest. That's really a no brainer. I think we all know that every woman's body is different. Additionally, I understand that society's view of what's beautiful is not the standard that I should want to look at. I shouldn't be aiming to be the same size as Hollywood thinks I aught to be. That said- move along.
As women, there is always something about ourselves that we spend just a little extra time on. We don't admit it to anyone because we're supposed to be selfless creatures, always giving and always thinking about others. I spend my extra time making sure that my choice of clothing compliments my body shape. That might sound vain to some, but I am really bothered when I can see love handles through my clothes. So I wear what compliments me- and subsequently hides all the lumps and bumps that don't. This is getting harder and harder to do.
I knew I'd put on a little bit of weight since we moved to Texas. I don't really know what it's been because my diet hasn't really changed. In fact, I drink considerably less coffee and soda than I used to. The only thing I can think is that quit smoking six months ago. So... fast forward to last month. I went to find a new dress at Ross. As I perused the isles of dresses, I pulled out two in my size (according to the last dress I'd purchased) and two in a size larger. When I went to try them on, I couldn't zip any of them. Up a size I went. No luck. Up a size. No luck. This continued until I got to size 10. I finally found a super cute pant suit type outfit that was black and pink and actually looked okay, I paid for it and left. Driving home I called my mother to lament the fact that I'd just purchased a size 10 outfit. We talked about my weight gain and about how I didn't think it was a huge deal but that it was still really bothering me. We talked about how I'd been in amazing shape when I got out of the Marine Corps. (Just to give you an idea of how good of shape I was in, the girls called me Six Pack Jones because my stomach was HOT. I was 126 lbs of toned muscle). I pulled up in my driveway, still on the phone with my mom, and went to snap a picture of the tag to send to Mike with the caption "Guess what I got? I got fat!" because I knew he'd find it funny. I wasn't overly concerned with my size 10 outfit, just a little upset with myself. But I can laugh at myself, so I pulled the tag out and prepared to snap the picture.
Suddenly, on the phone with my mother, I gasped. "What's wrong, Kate?" My mom asked. I could feel the hot tears building up in my eyes as I tried not to give in to the sob welling in my chest. "Oh mom," I whispered. "Oh mom. My outfit from Ross was most definitely hanging in the wrong section." I could feel the tears threatening me. "Well that's good!" Mom told me. "No mom. It's not a size 10. It's a size 14," and there went the tears.
We talked for a minute longer and then I went inside, where I dropped down on to my couch and cried. You see, when I joined the Marine Corps 12 years ago, I was underweight. I had to delay going to bootcamp because they wouldn't let me in underweight like that. I spent weeks at my moms putting weight on, drinking horrible milk shakes made from Enfamil and whole milk and eating everything I could get my hands on. It took a month and a half to simply put ON ten measly pounds, only to go to bootcamp one pound underweight. I checked in at 116 on February 10 and graduated at 126 on May 24. When I graduated bootcamp, I was a healthy size 6. After I had Bethany, I spent considerable time in the gym every day. I couldn't run like I used to, given that I was still recuperating from fractures in both of my hips, but I could slow jog. So I did. I worked myself from a size 14 immediately after her birth to a size 4 in one year. After I had Zach, I came home and put on my pre-pregnancy clothes. I had three months before I was pregnant with Chris. After Chris I had three kids to chase around, and the weight didn't come off as quickly. We moved to California when Chris was only 1, but by the time he was two, I was down to 135lbs. My jeans were still a little tight, but I got over that. I didn't have the time or the money to find a better size, so I just learned how to dress to hide the muffin.
Fast forward. Chris is 5, almost 6 now. I'm purchasing outfits from Ross that are a size 14 and I'm crying on my living room floor when no one is home while I drink my flavorless ice water (that I consistently drink because being dehydrated is just rude). I'm making healthy choices for food (as healthy as can be expected on a budget), and I know I'm not doing anything really wrong as far as my diet goes. Its the gym. It's the lack of exercise. And that's why it bothers me. My shape and my weight bother me because I know there is something I can do about it.
I'll tell you a secret. It also bothers me because my biological mother and every one of her female relatives is morbidly obese. They aren't just overweight. They are pushing 300lbs and over- every one of them. The spend their days sitting around with bags of chips attached to their hands and they get offended if you even mention that you like to take walks. I don't spend any time with these people. I haven't met most of them, and have only conversed with some of them online. I am adopted, so I haven't actually seen this woman since I was a young child. But she sends me pictures and letters and emails and I see where it's in my family to be overweight. So my issue isn't just with my weight, it's with the danger of it being hereditary. A danger that I refuse to pass on to my daughter. So I have worked, since I had Bethany almost ten years ago, to make our lives as healthy as possible, but with as little fanfare as possible. I don't want them to grow up thinking we eat how we do for any other reason than its normal. I want them to just naturally keep up the healthy stuff because that's how they grew up. We don't do cakes and pies and cookies and desserts unless its for a special occasion. I seriously limit their access to chips (a fact they find offensive) and to other snacks. We don't even keep most of that stuff in the house. The only problem any of us has is Mike's addiction to Oreos, which I work hard to ignore because he's a Marine who literally works it off in the gym every day.
And yet.... last night I stepped on my wii fit board for the first time in at least 3 years and found that, to my disgust, I am at 24.6% body mass index, or BMI. 25% is overweight. This morning, after doing 50 curls and a short workout (I'll do another, longer one later this afternoon), I sat down to my laptop and, out of curiosity, googled the Marine Corps female weight standards. The maximum weight for female Marines at my height, before they're put on half rats (half rations), is 155. I am 155. I am 155 lbs. I am one pound, or .4%, away from being overweight. Me. ME! The girl who had to put ten pounds on to go to BOOTCAMP. Me.
I have a plan, just so you know. I'll continue to eat healthy, cutting even more out of my diet (the occasional double cheeseburger from McD's, and we're leaning toward chicken a lot more, as well). I don't have cravings for things, but I'm in a Bible study called Made to Crave now, which has been teaching me all kinds of things (none about dieting, but about other cravings, like craving attention or craving affection). That's not to say it isn't great for teaching about "dieting", if you will, but its not so much about dieting, but rather about replacing the cravings for food or sweets or salts with a healthy craving for God. What I'm learning about myself in this study is that I crave interaction with people (hello facebook) and I crave time to study and read (hello research for books) and that prevents me from taking time to crave a healthy body. So hello gym time. I'm still in my first week of working out, and I have officially let my husband know he cannot be my accountability partner (BTW- if you're going to start working out, get an accountability partner) but he can help me work on my arms at the gym on Fridays.
I guess I'll have to let you guys know in a month how its going.

It's one of those mornings this morning. You know the one. Your alarm wakes you up... thirty five minutes after it goes off. Your kids refuse to get out of bed, despite the extra half hour of sleep. They take their precious sweet time to put on four articles of clothing and then they wait until you sit down on the toilet to tell you there isn't any cereal. They stand in the doorway of the bathroom and try to discuss the secrets of life while you try to interrupt them 17 times to tell them you just want to wipe your bum in private.
One of them bursts in to tears while putting his shoes on because, despite being older than his brother, his brother's shoes are bigger and that's just not fair. Its never fair.
Your daughter decides to wear a tank top. And its 37 degrees outside. And tank tops aren't allowed at school.
You have to make a choice between taking a minute to make coffee and taking a minute to put ice water in your water bottle for the gym. Water wins. Because you're an adult, dangit, and you're committed to learning self control and it's important to be well hydrated at all times. Stupid water.
You stop by McDonalds to grab your kids some biscuits and milk to eat on the drive to school, sitting at the turn to turn into McDonalds for five minutes because the gent in front of you doesn't want to block the entrance from oncoming traffic. By all means, you'll wait, because you're still going to get the kids to school about ten minutes before the bell at this point.
Then you wait in line for ten minutes only to find out at the window that they're only accepting cash. Who carries cash any more? You drive to the McDonalds closer to your kids' school and wait for another few minutes. Just as you're pulling up to the spot in the split drive through, some woman comes racing up, whips her giant SUV around your Jeep and takes your spot in line. She turns and waves her chubby little fingers at you as she places her order and you suddenly understand how seemingly calm wonderful people can just lose it. As she drives in front of you, taking your spot at the window to pay, she has the audacity to wink at you.
You finally get the kids food, but you can only get two of three drinks open, one kid is crying because he thought bacon was chicken, one is laughing because his jelly farted when it came out of the wrapper, and your daughter is telling you that she isn't eating this stuff without her milk.
You get to the school, pulling over to allow the kids to finish their breakfast and realize that the one on medication, the one who HAS to eat ALL OF HIS FOOD or he'll be violently ill for hours is full from his half a bite of biscuit. And you've already given him his medicine. The other one on medication, who is battling an issue with being underweight and has been cautioned by her pediatrician that she must eat, even if she doesn't feel hungry, has proudly declared that she's finished her food, and she opens her wrapper to show you. The biscuit remains untouched, but the bacon is gone. The little one, who theoretically should be the one that takes forever, is chomping away on his biscuit, quiet and proud of himself. Ten minutes in the school parking lot and you see that two of three of the kids still have almost an entire biscuit left. Oh no. Nuh uh. You are not sitting in the school parking lot all morning pleading with your kids to eat. You drive home. As you're gathering your water bottle and keys and phone, you realize you've gotten purple jelly on your favorite gym tank top- which is not purple. You get out of your Jeep, turning to step away from it, when your daughter decides to push the Jeep door. Hard. And it slams into the back of your head so hard you fall face first into the cold, muddy grass, sending your keys and your phone and your water bottle flying across the yard.
You know, one of those mornings.

Placing the word "only" before a phrase does not reduce it's 
significance, and I would caution you, as a fellow woman,
mother and South Dakotan not to attempt reduce the
significance of a group of people because it suits you.

I received the following email from Representative Kristi Noem today in response to my dismay at her vote for the bipartisan budget deal that will see our military retirees robbed of $80,000 to $120,000 apiece over the course of the first twenty years of their retirement. My reply is below in bold. 

Dear Kathleen,  

Thank you so much for contacting me! I appreciate you taking the time to share your concern with the recently passed budget agreement.  I'd like to take the opportunity to share with you my thoughts on
this issue.  

Last December, we faced a choice in Washington to pass a budget agreement, or face another round of across-the-board cuts to our national defense and potentially another government shutdown.  On December 12, 2013, the House passed H.J.Res 59, a budget agreement that was put together by Rep. Paul Ryan (R-WI) and Senator Patty Murray (D-WA).   In addition to the savings in the bill, I supported it because it included a number of provisions
that protect the Department of Defense from a portion of arbitrary spending cuts in coming years that would have hindered our military readiness and overall defense.  However, this budget did include a provision to reform military
retirement pay that has resulted in concerns and questions from some.  I would like to take the opportunity to address them.  

Only about 17% of military personnel qualify for military retirement and many retire with full benefits after 20 years of service and go on to have second careers.  The budget agreement included a provision slowing the Cost-Of-Living-Adjustment (COLA) for these working-age military retirees by one percent until the age of 62.  Once a retiree reaches 62, their retirement is recalculated and they will receive the full COLA.   

This provision makes  no changes  to veterans receiving benefits through the Veterans Administration (VA).  It also makes no changes for disabled veterans, survivors of deceased veterans, or retirees over the age of 62.  Finally, this provision does not take effect until 2015, and it's expected that Congress may revisit this issue later this year.  If so, I
will keep your concerns in mind.   

Thanks again for contacting me and providing me your insight. I hope this response has been helpful in answering your questions.   Please let me know whenever I can be of assistance, I encourage you to visit my website  noem.house.gov  to get more information on the latest congressional news important to South Dakota, or find
me on Facebook or Twitter . 

Sincerely,

Kristi Noem
Member of Congress


Dear Ma'am,

I appreciate your reply, despite it being more of a description of a situation I am already educated on. As your letter holds no real new information, I'm left only to address the same issues that caused me to contact you to begin with.

Placing the word "only" in front of a phrase does not make it any less than what it is. For example. Kristi Noem is only a woman. Kristi Noem is only a mother. Placing the word "only" before a phrase does not reduce it's significance, and I would caution you, as a fellow woman, mother and South Dakotan not to attempt to reduce the significance of a group of people because it suits you. We, as women, have fought too hard and too long to rise to prestigious positions like Representative to begin using our positions to degrade other groups of people.

I would be interested to see what other "reductions" and "growth slowers" were put in to place against your office. What are you going without in order to make the loss of fair COLA growth acceptable? If you are not going without, your veterans should not be going without.

Please do more than keep my thoughts in mind. Enter in conversation with me, and your other constituents that will be affected, and encourage us. Help us to help you, because in the end, without us, there IS no you. Without our votes, there is no Representative Noem.

There is only Kristi Noem, the mom from South Dakota.

Kathleen Foley

Zach frowned, his red little eyebrows knit together and his lips gathered in a defiant bunch. He pulled his legs underneath him to push himself up on his knees and leaned closer to me, looking me in the eyes. "No."

I have three children.
Bethany, who is 9, is beautiful inside and out. She is smart, innocent and carefree, a bit on the sassy side and enamored with the idea of learning new things. A beach babe all the way, she has blonde hair to her waist that she can't wait to chop off and green eyes that someday will get men in to trouble. She is determined to do her best at the things she loves, and to go out making people laugh over the things she hates. She most enjoys reading and playing racing games on the WII and is a fan of Miranda Lambert. She is my daughter.
Christopher is 5. Tall and lean, he is super serious like 97% of the time. He needs a lot of reassuring that he's handsome and smart, even though, judging by his blonde hair, long thick lashes and dimpled cheeks, he very clearly is both. Some day he will make a strong, well grounded and balanced husband for some extremely lucky woman. He has manners and proudly uses them and is excelling in school. He is mostly concerned with mutual respect, "you be nice to me and I be nice to you and we'll be just fine" kind of kid. He's a fan of Iron Man and Captain America and Thor. He is Mike's son.
Zachary is 6. He has huge brown eyes, light pinkish skin and hair so red that people occasionally ask me if he's adopted. He is neither rail thin like his sister or tall like his brother. Rather, he is stocky- built like he might possibly play football when he's older, if he could get past the fact that he might get knocked over. He is neither of fan of school or of being the center of attention in public. He has no interest in following in the Foley footsteps of playing soccer or a musical instrument. He doesn't focus well, unless the subject matter is Angry Birds, Legos or Star Wars.
Especially if it's Star Wars.
Additionally, Zach is incredibly artistic. In his second year of Kindergarten now, Zach's teacher tells me that when he is permitted to sit down and draw or paint it's like he's in a completely different world where he's the master. At school he is quiet and sometimes seems very nervous and unsure of himself. At home, he is fun loving and happy most of the time. Unless you ask him to read a word or spell something. Then his entire demeanor changes and I see the little boy his teacher sees at school all day. Things bother Zachary. He knows how things should work and he is deeply offended and even confused when they don't work that way. Case in point: when he first got into the new school (we had to transfer him to be in the same school as his brother and sister), he had this particular spot outside the door on the playground where he waited for his brother. Every day, every recess, he had to stand in the same spot. For about two weeks this went on, and he would only play with his brother. It wasn't that he refused to play, it was that he just didn't know what to do without his brother. He was the same way for an entire year before in the other school, always sitting in the exact same spot at recess and playing by himself. One day, I had to take Chris to an appointment and he was late getting to school. Zach was left standing in that spot, waiting patiently, for his brother so they could play. He waited and waited. At one point someone needed to carry something out of the door he was next to, and they asked him to stand on the other side of the door. He moved without a complaint or an argument. But it completely threw him off. He forgot what he was doing, eventually wandering off to a tree to figure out what was going on where he was approached by a few kids from his class who asked him to play with them. Never one to say no, Zach again obliged. But he was off for the rest of the day. His teacher said that he spent the rest of the day in somewhat of a fog, completely confused by even the simplest of things, like which door was the boys bathroom and which was the girls. When he got home that day, he accused his brother of hating him and declared to me that he loved me too much to go back to school.
But don't believe for a minute that he isn't smart. He has a memory sharp as a katana and a witty humor that's so quick you'll have to catch your breath to keep up with his comebacks. He pays serious attention to details and doesn't hesitate to politely correct you when you're wrong.
For Christmas, we bought Zach the original Star Wars Trilogy. He loves Star Wars, and he talks about Darth Vader the most. At least 90% of his drawings are Star Wars related in some way, and of these, you're certain to find a Darth Vader somewhere. He always wants to play Darth Vader when the kids are playing Star Wars. He's always drawn to the bad guy, it seemed to me. Until about two weeks ago, sitting at the dinner table and engaged in conversation with all of the kids about good versus evil. We were talking about good guys and bad guys and Christopher mentioned that bad guys always get killed by the good guys like Darth Vader did.
Zachary piped up, "No! Darth Vader is a good guy!"
I swallowed my food and shook my head, "No he wasn't, Zach."
Zach put down his silverware and glanced at his dad and then his brother and sister and then back at me and disagreed. "No, he's a good guy."
I just smiled. "No buddy, Darth Vader is a bad guy. Luke Skywalker is a good guy."
Zach frowned, his red little eyebrows knit together and his lips gathered in a defiant bunch. He pulled his legs underneath him to push himself up on his knees and leaned closer to me, looking me in the eyes. "No. Darth Vader was a good guy for a long time and then he was bad for a little time and then when the Emperor was going to kill Luke Skywalker, he killed the Emperor. Good guys kill the bad guys. Darth Vader loved his son and bad guys don't love people, they love to hurt people. Maybe Darth Vader did some bad things, but he was a good guy and I like Darth Vader the best." He gave his head a little nod and dropped back down onto his bottom, gently picking up his fork and continuing with his dinner like nothing had happened.
But something had happened. I got a glimpse into how his mind and heart work. Bethany and Chris, they just accept the facts as they are presented, asking the proper questions and ever open to learning what's being taught. But Zach- at 6 he waded through the facts as they were presented, examined what he'd seen, made some decisions about love and how that affects the behavior of both good guys and bad guys  and then dared to stand up to his own mother with his well informed conclusion.
He decided what he believed and then defended it at great risk to himself.
He is my son. He is his father's son.
And apparently he's a big Darth Vader fan.

Suffice it to say, the "base" win this week was like a window being opened and someone sticking their head in and saying "Hey, I've got a limb out here you can climb on. You can see a lot better from out here." I'm already half hanging out of the window already, why not go all the way out, right?
This month I was honored to be nominated and voted for as the Spouse of the Year for my military installation. As some of you might know, my husband is a MECEP Marine. This means he is an active duty enlisted Marine who was specifically selected from a group of Marines to attend college and earn a commission in the Marine Corps. It's a pretty big deal, and I am outrageously proud of him for the accomplishment of being selected to be a MECEP. What this means for us, as a family, is that while he attends school he is literally assigned to the school. His orders, no kidding, are for a building on campus known as the Military Sciences Building. Texas A&M is our base. There isn't a commissary, there isn't a Naval Hospital or mommy and me groups to support the military spouses. It's strange living out in the civilian world as a military family when your entire married life has been within the bubble. Strange, but not horrible. It has it benefits, but that's a blog entry for another day.

So when I was nominated, I wasn't sure what to put for my base. Texas A&M wasn't an option and we aren't on recruiting duty. My husband's command are all stationed here, as well. From Brigadier General Ramirez right down to his SSgt, the command are all in the Military Sciences Building. A question or two later and my nomination was filled out and my base was entered as "No Base".

Its fitting to note that I went to the Military Sciences Building for only the second time since we've lived here to wait for the results of the base vote. I wanted to be "on base" when I found out. To my surprise, I won the "base"! My husband tried to high five me, but I was stuck in place, staring at the screen of the phone with my jaw dropped as the MECEP Marines in the hallway waited to hear the results. Mike's SSgt was the first to congratulate me (aside from Mike), and the first thing he asked was how that would affect the things I could do (ex: would that help me to do things for families, get things done). I could feel the excitement rising as I realized that I might actually have the opportunity to create and contribute to changes to current issues (aka: military retirement and slashing of the budget) outside of my twitter and Facebook while I completed school.

That concept is huge to me. I know how important an education is, and I know how much value society places on her leaders having good educations. I know that it would be foolish of me to try to run for public office without the education to back it up, and I know that I hate school. I've never been a straight A student and, even though I am a researching fool, I've never been able to write a proper research paper. Knowing how I have resented the idea of going back to school for a few years now, it was a shock to my husband when I stood up from my computer desk last December, slammed my computer closed, muttered a few unflattering words about Representative Ryan and declared, "I've just applied for college at Blinn. These people are not going to get away with this!" and then stomped away to make myself a consolation coffee.

Over the course of the last few weeks I've been working on getting everything squared away for school to start in the fall. I'm registered, just waiting on transcripts from Lee University and Andrews High School. In the meantime, I'm trying to figure out how to contribute to the #KeepYourPromise movement. I'm planning on attending the #HomeFrontRising conference in DC next month (Lord willing and the creek don't rise), and I'm reading everything I can get my hands on about effecting change. My days are consumed with learning as much as I can about how things work in politics (apparently we are so screwed up) and how normal people like me can make a difference.

Suffice it to say, the "base" win this week was like a window being opened and someone sticking their head in and saying "Hey, I've got a limb out here you can climb on. You can see a lot better from out here." I'm already half hanging out of the window already, why not go all the way out, right?

Someone said to me, amidst my celebration yesterday, "What can you really do? You're just one wife. There's spouses out there with a much bigger stage to stand on with a lot more people listening." This is very true. I have two things to say to that. Number one: if I am not the best candidate to effect change then I'm not the best. It's okay, that doesn't stop me from pursuing school and public office later and supporting the best candidate now. The entire point is to get the change done, not to be the face behind the change. Number two: we should all be using our "stage" to get the word out, regardless of the competition. We should all be working together to get that done. Case in point, Bianca Strzalkowski and Jeremy Hilton. You don't see them bickering over who's got the bigger stage and the bigger voice and the most followers. You see them linking their arms and flexing their muscles and getting the job done. Regardless of how the rest of the competition goes, if I can't work arm in arm with my fellow SOY's then I don't deserve the title, its that simple.

To be honest, I'm most looking forward to linking my arms.

"This is my clear and succinct message to white Americans. How long will it be before "you people" realize you have elevated someone to the office of president who abjectly despises you-" Allen West

(click the orange to go to the story)

For starters: HOW. DARE. YOU. May I point you in the general direction of actual statistics that show that AFRICAN AMERICANS overwhelmingly kept Obama in office in 2012 and put him in office in 2008.

YOU ARE THE PROBLEM NOW. I have always, always respected you as a political mind, a military leader, and a man. This little comment up there that you made today- total and complete disgustingness. How dare you blame a race for a problem to begin with! If a white person (ME!) wrote this:

Let me make it more clear to you black Americans. How long before "you people" understand that you have groveled and worshiped a man into a position of false diety blah blah blah.

I would be labeled a racist bigot so fast my little white head would spin...

You. Are. Racist.

That closing comment on your website outright tells the world that you are racist and that you blame white people for what black people did to this country.

I'm ashamed for you.

Disgusted and ashamed,

Kathleen Foley

Photograph: Roger Bamber Tonight I hauled my three kids to Walmart to get my boys hair cut. I love the hair place in the Walmart in the next town over, the ladies are super nice and they know what a “high and tight” is, so that’s where my boys get their hair cut. After having their cuts, we made a pit stop in the bathroom and then went in search of a few things I wanted: a poster frame for a Star Wars poster the boys got for Christmas, an ironing board because mine finally fell apart a few weeks ago, and a sewing machine because mine hates me. I’d taken about ten steps down an isle after having set the frame into the basket when I heard a very young child crying. At first I thought nothing of it- it’s Walmart, after all. But after a second I heard a woman’s voice order the toddler to “shut up” followed by three sharp cracks and then the totally unnecessary words “shut the ‘F’ up or I’ll beat your ‘F’ing ‘A’.” I winced and kept walking. As I came from the end of the isle, I saw the woman. She was very large. The child was very small. If I had to pick out ages, I would say she was approximately my age and the child was approximately 2. Perhaps a small 3. The little boy continued to cry. It was a pained cry, like you hear on a little kid who’s fallen and scraped his knee or bonked his head. Whatever it was, it was painful. The woman, undeterred by the child’s pain, continued to cuss at and threaten him. I frowned and looked down at my own kids. C was happily playing in the cart. Z was gazing toward the woman moving to another isle. The cart jiggled a bit and the poster frame gently slid over against the boys. I apologized profusely to the giggling boys. A woman laughed.

“I’m sorry,” she told me, stifling a laugh. “It’s just that you’ve got parents like that,” she said, motioning behind her,  “and then parents like you.”

We exchanged pleasantries and then I was on my way to fetch my ironing board. Two rows went by and I heard the woman continue to scream profanities at the boy while he continued to cry out in pain. Twice more I heard her crack him three times each. As I walked past the end of an isle, the woman had been joined by several other women. The first woman grabbed the boy up out of the basket and unceremoniously dropped him to the floor. Before I could comprehend what was happening, the woman had stepped back, raised a shoe in her hand above her head, and swung forward, connecting with the child surrounded by at least three other adults. He bounced forward and a woman pushed him back. The first woman did it twice more, all the while screaming the ‘F’ word at him. I paused, fighting with myself. I looked down at my shocked, safe, children in the cart. Z had begun to silently cry. I could hear the woman to my right as she noticed my hesitation.

“I don’t care if she be lookin! I do what I ‘F’ing want!”

The first tear spilled over Z’s red eyes onto his pale, freckled cheeks.

I turned to the woman. She was much larger than she’d first appeared. I took a deep breath and immediately regretted wearing glasses.

I knew she’d hit me and I knew I couldn’t afford new glasses.

I also knew that I’d rather buy new glasses than see this child’s picture in the news.

I knew she wouldn’t stop hitting him if I told her to stop.

I knew I’d have to divert her attention to something, someone else.

I knew I’d have to offend her.

“Please don’t use that language around my children,” I calmly told her.

That should do it, I thought. People who cuss at children HATE when people say something to them about it. They hate it. And I normally wouldn’t say a word to a person cussing around their kids. Parents should be able to parent. But they shouldn’t be allowed to beat their children.

She turned toward me and put that stupid shoe in my face. Any minute now, I thought.

“Don’t you ‘F’ing tell me how to take care of my kid!” She screamed, that shoe waving back and forth, brushing the tip of my nose.

I reached up and shoved the shoe out of my face, never touching her but fully prepared to fight to the death.

“I wouldn’t dream of telling you how to take care of your kid. I told you not to cuss in front of mine.”

“I’ll say whatever the ‘F’ I want to my kid! And I’ll kick your ‘F’ing ‘A’. I’ll ‘F’ing kill your ‘A’!!”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a man step up to my left, between me and the kids- shielding them and preparing to step in. To my right I saw the woman who’d laughed a few minutes earlier step forward.

“I’m calling the police,” the blonde woman told her.

The woman turned away from me and began to hurry away. She called out over her shoulder, “You ‘F’ing call the cops on my ‘F’ing ‘A’. I’m still gonna hit him.”

The woman walked away, with the blonde following her, on the phone. I turned toward my kids and noticed that a huge crowd had gathered behind me. I stood for just a moment and then told the kids, “We don’t talk that way. We never talk that way, and we definitely don’t treat people that way. That’s a bad decision and that’s unkind.”

The man that had stepped in front of the kids just looked at me; I’d begun to shake viciously. “Are you okay?”

I looked at him. And started sobbing.

The woman did call the police, who could hear the other woman in the background, and responded right away. They were waiting outside for the group when they exited the building. They took statements, questioning the woman and all the witnesses, including myself. Upon questioning the group of women, three of four of them claimed that I’d verbally assaulted the woman, following her around the store cussing at her. The claimed to have only spanked the child, which was clearly an understatement.

And as it turned out, the woman wasn’t even the child’s mother. It was his aunt. The mother was in the group of women, but never stepped forward, never gave a voice to her child.

When the officer told me that, I broke down and started crying all over again. I will never, ever understand a parent that doesn’t defend their child in the presence of abuse. I can’t understand a parent who would stand by and let a complete stranger risk their safety to protect that child.

As we stood outside, waiting to give our statements, one by one, women and men came up to me. Each one either hugged me or put his hand on my shoulder and told me, “Thank you.” Every single woman said to me “I wanted to say something, but I was too scared. Thank you for not being scared.”

I just shook my head and answered, “I was terrified. But if I was so scared, what must that little boy be feeling?”

“I never thought of that,” one woman whispered, horrified. “I followed her around the entire store, all the way from groceries, ready to call the police if she kept hitting him..” her voice trailed off.

Another woman piped up, “I saw her over by the laundry detergent hitting him. Then I heard her screamin’ at you and when I got over there- I thought she was gonna kill you!”

A man added, “Yeah. We came right out of electronics when she raised up her hand at you. I thought, ‘I’m gonna hafta hit a woman tonight’. I can’t believe she ran off like that.”

A woman commented, “I think she was going to until she saw all the people standing behind her. I think that lady saved that kid’s life.”
 

Tonight I feel heartbroken. I don’t know if they removed the child, who resides with the aunt. The police officer was very reserved in his judgment, only saying that once they’d reviewed the video from the store they would make a decision, but that the woman would not be permitted to leave with the child until a decision had been made about whether to remove the child. I feel strongly that, once they’ve reviewed the footage (which I can only imagine will be even worse than what I saw, based on the statements of the dozen or so people who gathered outside to give them) that the child will be removed.

I feel heartbroken because so many people saw what was going on, and not one said a thing. It took a mother, a scrawny little white woman toting three kids alone, confronting a group of four HUGE, angry women, to make the hitting stop, however momentary. Women and men alike saw what was going on, but they put their comfort first. They were afraid, and I don’t blame them. But they were too afraid to protect a baby from monster. And that breaks my heart.

Friends, it’s okay to be afraid. It’s necessary, in the interest of self-preservation, to be afraid. Especially in a potentially violent situation that could end very badly for you. But that’s when it’s most important to stand up. That’s when it’s most important to step in. You just gotta find your nerve and hit it.


Before she hits that baby again.