About a gazillion years ago, I was in the Vagina Monologues. If you’ve never been – or, better yet, never been a part of a production – you’ve missed out. My senior year at South Carolina I performed “My Short Skirt.” I loved it – the empowering feeling of being a woman, in a cast of phenomenal women was not to be ignored.
There’s a line in the monologue, “My short skirt is not an invitation, a provocation, or an indication…” It’s meant to signal the end of blaming the victim of rape. I wish I could get the crazies who birthed me to understand that my blog is not an invitation for their comments and opinions. There are things I’d like to write – things I’d like to get off my chest… well, y’know what? I’m still going to write. I don’t publish their comments anyway (although they are hysterical to read).
Almost every Sunday, we head over to my in-laws for dinner. They get a dose of C3, and we don’t have to do dishes. It’s a win for both families.
However, sometimes I get a little weepy – and it’s not because I get superflous parenting advice from my used-to-be-a-baby-nurse mother-in-law. While they’re both telling tales about K’s childhood, there’s no one to share my stories. I wish I knew when I started walking. I wish I knew when I started talking. I wish I knew if I was in the 63rd or 14th percentile. It’s hard to trust my memories – so much of what I thought I knew just hasn’t quite stood the test of time.
My kiddo won’t worry about this. She’ll get the stories – she’ll have K and I as part of her life… always. There’s something about knowing that we’re providing a stable (reinforced) foundation for our daughter is a relief. The last lines of My Short Skirt…
But mainly my short skirt
and everything under it
My life is mine. And I’m not squandering a minute!