A Year in Quotes, 2018

As this year comes to a close and we reflect on 2018, I am reminded that both boys started at new schools (one was due to rezoning, one was due to the former school closing) and have made new friends, though they both miss their old ones. We have escaped another year (fingers crossed) with no broken bones or trips to the ER. We've made many fun memories with family and friends, and are grateful for our village. On paper it may seem to an outsider that we've really hit a stride with this parenting thing and that we've figured out the basics. Lest you ever think we've got it all together, I've compiled our annual list (you can find last year's quotes here) of quotes that the husband or I have said to or about our kids, and I present those out of context for you here. This has become one of my favorite traditions, writing down the things I hear come out of our mouths and then reading them all at the end of the year. I promise these are real words we have uttered in 2018. There are probably more, but I was too preoccupied to write or remember them. I present those to you here with outtakes from our Christmas card photo shoot. 

I’m not in charge of why certain things are called specific words. If you have an issue with it...write your senator.

Winning doesn’t matter, it’s all about having fun and getting dirty.

I don’t think Prissy wants to surf.

It’s like your chair has a jack in the box spring that keeps pushing you out.

This restaurant has a no wrestling rule.

Scissors aren’t for cutting bananas.

Giving it back is part of sharing. Otherwise it’s called stealing.

Sorry we’re late. Had to pull over and take all the light sabers.

Don’t eat anything off any car, but especially a stranger’s car.

Don’t pet the dog with the oven mitt.

I don’t think Cheetos are made from cheetahs

Go put that back in the offering plate.

We don’t put fingers in our bottom, and if we do, we don’t wipe them on the wall.

Since we don't know whose cat that is, maybe we shouldn't put a coonskin hat on it. He or she might not like that.

If y’all don’t keep fighting over the tv you have to watch historical documentaries.

Why did you punch the frozen chicken? What did you think would happen? 

No, no, no. I'm glad you weren't going to touch it with your hands, but the kitchen tongs are not for picking up a dead bird outside.

No parkour in the hotel.

You can’t harmonica with food in your mouth.

Most animals don’t go to college or have jobs, that’s the main reason a penguin can’t be a doctor.

If you want to touch someone’s privates, touch your own.

Quit putting cheez it’s in your arm pit.

Your jingle bell bow tie is not for Easter.

I don’t think people can sleep while they’re awake.

If you’re creating a worm memorial, it doesn’t need to be on the sidewalk right in front of the house. It doesn’t have to be in the exact spot he/she died.

I don’t think cantaloupe has a bone.

Someone has put your menstrual cup in the sink to stop it up and put a witch in there.

How did the toilet seat land on your shoulder if your head wasn’t in there?

When you get a job you can buy as many sparkling waters as you want.

No more sitting on heads tonight.

Don’t do that unless you’re drowning.

We don’t play games at funerals.

I can’t make the sun less hot.

We’re not driving a deer bone to the beach. Don’t eat near that deer bone.

It’s my job to keep you safe. It’s not my job to watch your show in the back seat while I’m driving.

We’ve at least got to make it look like you’ve had a bath this month.

I don’t think Guinean pigs can swim.

You've GOT to leave your shoes on in a porta potty.

Do you think the baby Jesus wants you to fight over a manger????

I don’t think dogs go to dog college.

That’s called a pay phone. Don’t put your train ticket in there.

We don’t have to fight over who gets the burnt taco shell. Everyone can get one.

The container of our ice cream maker is not a good place for a lizard to live. Find her a new home. 

Don’t open closets at the White House.

The president doesn’t want you to pick your nose. And the secret service is watching.

You don’t have to be making an animal noise every second you’re awake

You don’t need a drill for brushing teeth

Please don’t wake your brother up in the night to ask him to help you find a bandaid you lost in the bed.

It’s not a competition of who has the sharpest teeth. 

Don’t put your booger in my nose.

No humans are smaller than a mouse.

You cannot be dead for the Christmas card picture. Come back to life.

Don’t put roast on the dog.

If I can hear you yodeling it lets me know you are not brushing your teeth. 

Don’t steal a car is a rule everyday, not just on Christmas Eve.

Did you just lick the rain off the car? Tell the truth. 

I don’t think there were elephants there when Jesus was born. 

Don’t cut the trolls hair with nail clippers. 

How do you both have trail mix in your underwear?

Tuesday

The Boy has been out of school since LAST FRIDAY. I don't know why schools are trying to give me my children ELEVEN DAYS before Christmas. Y'all oughta keep them until December 23rd, I think. I love and appreciate my kids' teachers like no one else. They get better gifts than my children's father, because teachers love my kids and they aren't even required to. But dang, I would give an extra gift if you'd keep these people a few extra days. 

BeYoYo finished this Wednesday, which was better. He only goes a half day, though, so by 12:30 everyday I had all the people at home, trying to keep them entertained. I had a morning meeting on Tuesday at our church, so I texted the mama of The Boy's good friend, Ryan, and asked if he wanted to come with us to church to entertain The Boy while I met. They had a big time, and they wanted to keep at it. The Boy asked if Ryan could come back to our house for a little while. Yes, yes, you can continue to play with each other and stay outta my hair. I texted his mom again and she said that was fine. 

I drove The Boy and Ryan to pick up BeYoYo from school. BeYoYo was so excited to see Ryan, because Ryan is the sweetest 7 year old on the planet, basically. I got everyone Happy Meals because I am awesome, and we went home. 

All the boys went upstairs to play and I started working on our dishwasher. I think the heating element is out, so I was troubleshooting and watching YouTube videos to see what to do next. The Boy and Ryan came down with a toy spaceship that was beeping. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. I couldn't hear my YouTube, so I told them to take it back upstairs or turn it off. The Boy said "We don't know how!" and they ran out of the room, laughing. 

A few minutes later The Boy came downstairs and asked if I would get the guinea pigs out for them to play with, so I went upstairs to help. I put both guinea pigs in the tub, which is what we do when they want to play with them. I don't want them running around the house on their own, but their cage isn't an ideal place for the boys to play with them. Plus, it's easy to clean up if they make a mess. Have you ever seen guinea pig poop? It's tiny and firm and pretty easy to clean. I put Speedy and Sprinkles in the tub and went back downstairs to the dishwasher. I called The Husband, who was working in Oklahoma, and complained about the dishwasher, and started washing dishes by hand. 

A few minutes later The Boy came downstairs again. He said "some soap spilt in the bathroom, and I accidentally stepped in it." I told him to grab a towel and clean it up, and he went back upstairs. I went back to washing dishes. I could hear the boys playing upstairs and having fun. A few minutes later I heard a loud crash followed by shrill-someone-is-definitely-hurt-screaming. I ran upstairs to investigate. 

The Boy was holding his head and crying. He had a large knot on his forehead and he was jumping up and down from either shock or pain or both. Ryan was looking at him with concern and asking him if he was okay. I started to ask what happened, but then I saw the bathroom floor. When he said some soap spilt, I thought he meant a little bit. He meant an entire bottle of kid's body wash spilt all on the bathroom floor and then they skated in it. The bathroom tile was covered in a thick film of gooey gloop, and there were footprints all throughout. I asked what happened and everyone talked at once. Apparently The Boy slipped in the soap and landed on the tile floor on his forehead. Not one of his appendages tried to catch his fall, he just soap-slip-flail-fell face first. I imagine there were cartoon sound affects. 

Instead of checking on his injury, I told The Boy that they all had to get out of the bathroom immediately. The Boy asked if they could go to the downstairs bathtub. I said no, I'm not moving guinea pigs to yet another bathtub. He said they just wanted to put their feet in the tub to rinse them off, no guinea pigs involved. I approved that and sent them on their way. Soon I heard the downstairs water running. BeYoYo called to me "I want to take a bath!" I told him no. 

I stared at the tile for a long time. How does one remove soap from a floor? It was kind of like if someone needed to move a large amount of honey from one place to another. How does that happen? I needed either a giant bee who could follow directions, or one of those big sticks with a ball at the end? That didn't seem right. I needed a backhoe or something. Actually, demolition might have been easier. I settled on scooping up the excess soap with towels, and then folding the towel over on itself to keep it contained. I went downstairs to put the towels in the washer (no detergent needed!) and could still hear the bath water running. I marched into my bathroom to tell The Boy to turn off the bath water when I saw him completely in the tub. In his underwear. Ryan sat on the edge and had his feet in the water. I asked The Boy what the heck he was doing, and he said it felt so good he wanted to get in. I was glad he left his underwear on, at least. Then I heard BeYoYo asking for help, and I turned around to see him sitting on the toilet. I had one child with feet in the tub, another one in only underwear in the tub, and amidst this chaos apparently BeYoYo had come in to poop. He made himself right at home and didn't mind at all about the boys in the tub. I gave him a quick reminder about privacy and decency and not pooping in front of guests. He shrugged and asked me to wipe him. He's fully capable of wiping and I told him so. Then I wiped him anyway because it was faster than convincing him, and I wanted him to get out of that bathroom sooner rather than later. 

I told the big kids to get their shoes (and clothes!) on, because it was time to take Ryan home. Actually, it was a little past the time I told his mom we'd leave. They got out of the tub and The Boy decided he needed a fresh batch of clean clothes on, you know, since he'd just had a bath and all. He changed clothes, put on his shoes, and I grabbed my keys. I kept hearing something beep but I couldn't figure out where it was coming from. I asked the boys what the sound was and where it was coming from, as I was picking up jackets and hats looking underneath them for the mystery sound. The Boy opened the door and pointed to the spaceship on the porch that they'd had earlier. He explained "we can't get it to turn off, so I put it outside!" I picked it up and looked for an off switch but couldn't find one, so I left it and put everyone in the car. 

We ran Ryan home and came back to the spaceship still beeping. I searched for an off button and found none. I tried to take the batteries out, but couldn't find a screwdriver small enough. I called the Husband, who did not answer. I left him a hateful voicemail saying that I couldn't find a small screwdriver because the garage was a mess and it was all his fault and that there was beeping and a head injury and guinea pigs in the tub. I let the ship beep into the phone for good measure. I posted a video on facebook asking others for help, but all their suggestions included hammers and submerging in water. After trying for what felt like a really long time, I gave up and placed it back outside. Sorry, neighbors. 

I went back upstairs and stood and looked at the bathroom floor. It was still soapy. The tub still had guinea pigs in it. AND whatever body wash had spilled all over the floor had also spilled into the tub. So the guinea pigs were slippery, and they had been in the tub longer than usual, which meant more mess than usual. Plus their usually-super-easy-to-clean-and-not-messy-poop plus the addition of the soap had turned the tub into a soapy shit sludge. I told each of the children that they were required to watch tv until further notice. In separate rooms. 

I decided I needed to start with the tub, because I didn't want to clean the floor and then be walking on the freshly wet floor while cleaning the tub. First things first, I needed to put the guineas back in their cage. But their cage needed to be cleaned. So I cleaned their cage and gave them fresh bedding. Then I set about picking up the slippery guineas and putting them back in their cage. Do you know how hard it is to catch a slippery guinea pig in a slippery tub? I wiped off their little paws and tossed them into their freshly cleaned cage. Then I realized it would be much easier to clean the tub if I had a detachable shower head. I had one in the closet that had never gotten put on, so next I changed out the shower head. Once that was done, I used the shower head to clean the poop out of the tub. Then I ran a tub full of water and let bleach soak in it to kill any leftover bacteria. Whew. Now I could move on to the floors. 

I decided I needed to mop, but it seemed like adding water to the already soapy floor would just make suds. I called my mom, because that is what you do in emergencies. I relayed to her the soap and the slip and the ship and the shit. She was empathetic. She suggested trying salt to get up the soap, but I thought that just might make salty soap. So then she suggested vinegar, so I gave that a try. It did make bubbles, but I used a little at a time and I came upon a combination of vinegar, mop, towel, repeat. Vinegar, mop, towel, repeat. It was working. 

I went downstairs to take out the bathroom trash that had guinea bedding, and to put the math mats and towels into the dryer. I walked outside to take out the trash, where I was again confronted with the beeping ship I had left on the mat. Just then, the Husband called me back to ask if I wanted to apologize for the mean voicemail I had left him. I told him I did not, and I recounted to him about the soap and the slip and the ship and the shit. He had THE NERVE to laugh about this from the safety of Oklahoma. I let the ship beep into the phone for good measure. Again. 

After all this, the dishes were still not done. I turned the ipad on so I could watch something and got back to the job at hand while still letting the boys watch tv in their perspective spaces. I had given up on salvaging the day. The ship continued to beep on the porch. The next morning I walked outside to check on the ship to see if the batteries had finally died. And there I found it, lying silently, with the batteries laid on top. One of my sweet neighbors must've come over and taken out the batteries overnight. Either it was driving them crazy or they took pity on us, but they offered us the gift of a silent night. 

The guinea pigs were nestled with care 

The boys played without a care. 

And I silently thanked the schools 

that usually let them stay there. 

Please take them back soon! 

Advent

Our church does annual Advent devotional books, where different people in the congregation sign up for a certain day and scripture and then write something about it. Someone compiles them all in a book and everyone gets one to take home and read and reflect on daily. The kids draw and submit artwork for the books, it's a whole family affair. People really put a lot of energy and effort into what they submit, and it's a thoughtful and intentional process.

So when Mrs. Becky announced in November that it was time to sign up for an advent devotional scripture if you were willing to write one, I signed us up. I chose a pretty simple scripture so we wouldn't be going over our heads:

8And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. 9 An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. Luke 2:8-9


I sat down with the boys and read the scripture to them, and then asked them some questions about what they thought it meant. I wrote as they talked, and our "devotional" turned out to be this:

Here is our family’s conversation about the scripture. It is imperfect and unedited, unexpected and different. May we continue to look at the story with fresh eyes each year. 

What do you think of this part of the story? 

The Boy (7)- An angel came and they didn’t know what an angel was or maybe they’d never seen an angel. 

BeYoYo (4)- Maybe they didn’t know what an angel was, because most people know what different things are, but God knows everything. Also, God is everything. 

The Boy- He’s everywhere. 

BeYoYo- And everything!

BeYoYo- Maybe it was somebody who was told angels weren’t real. They are real, aren’t they? 

The Boy- Did you know some angels are still alive?

BeYoYo- Yes, even the ones that are with Jesus. 

Why were the shepherds afraid? 

The Boy: I have no idea. 

BeYoYo: they just didn’t recognize the glory of the spirit! 

Do you remember what happens next in the story? 

The Boy: One angel told them there was a new baby that was being born and he was the son of God and stuff like that. 

BeYoYo: I’m happy when I hear about a new baby because I get to hold it and play with it. 

What did the shepherds do after they heard about the baby Jesus? 

The Boy: There was a giant, bright star that led them to him. And the angel said the baby is born in Bethlehem. Maybe they asked the angels to take care of the sheep while they went to see him. 

BeYoYo: Then God came holding Jesus in his hands, and the angels came and picked up Jesus and gave him to God. 

The Boy: No, the angels gave Jesus to Jospeh and Mary. 

BeYoYo: And they put him in where the animals used to eat out of. Then the shepherds came to see him. And they picked him up to hold him. 

Amen. 

It was nontraditional at best. I knew several people might turn a side eye about how unpolished it was. And maybe the theology was all wrong. And perhaps a little irreverent to think of the angels sheep sitting? But I resolved that we would submit it anyway, because there were people who thought the first Christmas was unpolished and its theology was all wrong too.

So I started an email to Mrs. Becky. I said here's the Magness family advent submission- it's really something. When I was typing, BeYoYo said he really wanted to write some words to "Mrs. Vecky" also, so I let him write some gibberish to her. He was proud. I thanked Becky for compiling the book this year, and I sent it off. I only half held my breath.

Then a few weeks ago, Becky announced the books were ready. Yay! I always look forward to getting the book, then I read 5 of the devotionals that day and promptly lose it for the rest of advent. It's a Christmas tradition. I flipped through it to see if one of my kids' art was accompanying our devotional. December 15th, 16th, 17, 18th, 19th, here we are, December 20th! But when I turned to that page, this was what I found:

I had not included the attachment. I thought I was nervous about our original compilation, but we submitted gibberish! And sweet Becky read my email saying "it's really something" and thought I was referring to what BeYoYo wrote. She was too polite to write to me and say "what the hell, Leigh Ellen?" Speaking of irreverent. TheANGELoftheLORD appeared and our response was a string of random numbers and letters. What's more: this gibberish was not so out of place as my family's submission that she was positive it wasn't what we intentionally sent. I could just imagine Becky shaking her head in confusion and saying "classic Magness".

I flipped through the rest of the book to make sure our actual devotion wasn't listed elsewhere. It wasn't. Then I laughed and laughed and laughed. We had just sent gibberish out. I texted Becky and told her I might not have been clear in my email to her, and I was so sorry, and that I was laughing. She said she'd looked and looked for an attachment and found nothing else. Good naturedly, she suggested we were just prepared early for next year.

OPC friends, if you open your devotional on December 20th and are confused, we were just preparing you to feel the way the Shepherds felt when the angels appeared to them. It was an immersive experience. #ClassicMagness

Thanksgiving

I haven't been good about writing here. I'd love to do better, but life has been crazy and I haven't made time for it. But in the spirit of Thanksgiving and Advent and Chanukah, I'm trying to do better about finding time to sit still.

BeYoYo had been sick the week before Thanksgiving. He had a cough and a runny nose and then he spiked a fever of 103.5. I took him to the doctor and he tested negative for flu, she figured it was a virus but said he was fine to be around people after 24 hours fever free. So we quarantined him and gave him gatorade and otherwise went on with life.

Our Thanksgiving plans were to go to my aunt's house in Griffin for lunch, then to The Husband's grandmother's in Auburn (Georgia, not Alabama) for dinner on Thursday. On Wednesday, The Boy started with a fever. He was at my mom's house when I was at work, and she texted to say she knew he didn't feel well when he was being still.

I called my aunt to tell her he was sick. The Husband had offered to stay home with him while BeYoYo and I went to lunch, but my aunt was concerned about us having been exposed too, and she didn't want anyone else to get sick. She and I decided that we would not indeed come after all.
Instead we spent Thanksgiving morning watching Christmas movies and decorating for Christmas. The tree, Rubbermaid boxes of ornaments, wreaths, nativities, and lights, all spread from the attic to the living room. I asked BeYoYo if he wanted to help put ornaments on the tree, he said "No fanks. We did that last year."

Of course The Boy was feeling just fine. He was fever free and had no other symptoms. I took a nap to recover from the decorating, and we prepared to go to dinner. We'd seen no signs of illness for at least 24 hours so it should be fine. There are lots of kids on The Husband's side of the family, and both boys really wanted to see their cousins. We loaded up and headed that way.

The boys ran and ran outside with their cousins while the adults chatted inside and got the food ready. We had a whole room of desserts. Children were laughing and playing. Adults were gathered together. So much to be thankful for! We called all the kids inside for the blessing, and they came in with the trademark cherry red cheeks you only see on cold children and Santa Claus. BeYoYo asked me to hold him for the blessing, and I picked him up and held his cold face against my chest. He had really gotten worked up running outside in the cold, and the running activated his cough from the week before. When he started coughing I stepped out onto the porch by the kitchen so that we wouldn't interrupt the blessing. He coughed a hard cough, the kind where you're thinking he might be able to produce some mucus. I was about to tell him to try to get the mucus out when he puked all over me. 

All over my sweater and chest and neck, and his pants and shoes. I yelled into the kitchen to tell The Husband I needed his help. He told us to head to the wash room in the back of the house and he'd meet us there. I squeezed through the kitchen, through the line of adults fixing plates, through the dining room full of desserts and people starting to eat, down the hall, and to the wash room. BeYoYo was fine now that he'd gotten all of the mucus and other contents of his stomach out. He patted my face with his hand and said "it's okay mama, right? It was only an accident." I assured him through my gags that it was fine that he'd barfed on me during the Thanksgiving blessing. 'Tis the season.

We pulled off his hoodie, as he had a regular shirt underneath. I used a paper towel to wipe the puke off his pants and his hands and my chest and neck. I took off my sweater, but only had a skimpy cami underneath and it was not appropriate for wear outside the house or even outside the bedroom, honestly. The Husband appeared, having been to the car to investigate additional clothing options. We pulled BeYoYo's pants off and put on pajama pants for him. And all The Husband could find in the car for me was a raincoat. We bagged up the puke clothes in a grocery sack and I put on the raincoat on top of my cami. BeYoYo and I washed hands and went back in the kitchen to fix plates. It was a lovely Thanksgiving, aside from the puke fluke and me wearing a raincoat.

The next day the boys went to grandma's to play with cousins. They set up a candy sale on the front lawn to sell candy to passersby. They made a sign on a piece of notebook paper and listed individually wrapped mini candy canes for 25 cents each. They held each other up to emphasize their sign, but since we're talking kids holding kids, the holdee was just a mere inch higher off the ground than they were when they were standing. The adults took turns buying candy for a quarter. The kids did flips and cheers and yelled at cars. One poor guy rode by on a bicycle and they chased him, yelling "Candy! Twenty-five cents! Candy! Twenty-five cents!" The guy didn't make eye contact with any of the kids running alongside him, and we reigned them in. One stranger stopped and gave them five whole dollars and they were thrilled!

All seven of these kids are alphas and think they are in charge. I suggested maybe they needed a bigger sign so strangers would be able to see what they were doing. The Boy and one cousin went in to investigate bigger sign options, and they came back with some form of box lid as well as a folding table. The nine year old struggled with the table, then got frustrated and gave up. The Boy had started on the sign, but had started it in portrait instead of landscape, so there wasn't as much room to write. That didn't deter him from starting. He wrote CA in large letters, and then the 9yo came to "help". They argued back and forth about who was going to write. Then a 5yo cousin cried because his brother said he couldn't hold the sign, which wasn't finished. Meanwhile a 6yo cousin set up the folding table on her own. The other kids were still cheering and yelling at cars and trying to recruit customers. They finished the pitiful sign, which now said:

CANdy

It seemed more like a canned food drive or maybe a Obama speech than a candy sale. 

Luckily it started drizzling and we were able to get them to all come inside. They had made $6 in the hour they'd been outside. They came inside in a flurry, all talking about their successful sale. The two nine year olds who started the sale gave The Boy 65 cents for his help. The others held out their hands and the 9 year olds told them that The Boy was their only employee. A 7 year old demanded to be paid "I was doing flips for you! And I was yelling at cars too!" Her sister said "well, we didn't ASK you to do that. You were a volunteer." The 7 year old stomped off and The Boy kindly offered to share some of his 65 cents with her. She refused his money and set out to start her own candy shop in the living room. Hearing the commotion, I asked the two 9 year olds if they'd paid for their inventory. They said they already had, since they'd given The Boy his share. I explained the concept of inventory and told them if they didn't pay BeBe for the candy canes, it would be like stealing. I also explained that they had to pay her rent since they had been using her property for their business. They set off to reimburse Bebe. Then they came back and The Husband told them they'd need to pay taxes at 40%. They counted out 40 cents. He explained that they had to pay 40%, not 40 cents. They set about figuring out 40% of what they had left after rent and inventory and The Boy's commission. The Husband explained that they actually owed 40% of their total, not just what was left. They were disappointed and said "but we won't have any money left for us! And this was our idea!" My sister-in-law, who is mother to one of the 9 year olds and a small business owner, told them "owners always pay themselves last." 

They went to investigate the new candy store in the living room, where BeYoYo was quickly eating the inventory. The 7 year old was creating an elaborate display of candy canes on the top of the box lid on the floor. The Boy showed up with a canister of gum, the kind with square gum inside that is unwrapped. He dumped out the gum because he wanted to turn the canister into a bank for his 65 cents, obviously. There were cubes of gums rolling all about, and they had an idea to use the gum for their display. They squished pieces of gum into the box and used them to make candy cane stands. BeYoYo tried to sneak more candy, but the big kids told him he could only eat the ones that were broken. He set off to break some so he could eat them, but all the big kids yelled at him and he rolled his eyes and poked out his lip. And he didn't know where to put his sucker and his gum and his candy cane while he pouted. You can imagine how sticky he was. 

The day ended with Bebe and Uncle Grant taking everyone to the Dollar Tree to spend their hard-earned money. Since they only ended up with a few cents each, I'm guessing Bebe and Uncle Grant contributed some to the candy sale fund. The Boy came back with a stuffed animal Sloth that he has named Chocolate Face. 

A Sloth named Chocolate Face is now my Christmas persona. If you need me, I'll be on the couch eating chocolate and not moving. In my rain coat. 

Why Women Don't Report

Like most of America, I have been following the #Kavanaugh hearings. I have never watched a Supreme Court hearing, and was curious how this type of hearing would differ from a criminal trial, especially when the topic at hand is an alleged sexual assault. (For more on that process, read this blog post, which is oddly my number 1 most read post of all time).

One thing I've heard a lot of on social media and in conversations with real humans in real life this week is "Why now? Why did she wait so long to come forward?" Our own president tweeted that if this had really been as bad as she alleges, charges would have been filed immediately (36 years ago). I get it. These are valid questions. No one taking the responsibility of the highest court in the land should be approved without a lot of questions, and allegations of this nature should not be taken lightly. 

Before my first training on working with sexual assault survivors 14 years ago, I had some of the same questions and suspicions when I heard about sexual assaults. That first training helped me identify some of the narratives about sexual assault that I didn't even realize I had bought into because they are so ingrained in our culture. Then, over the last 14 years I've taken more trainings, worked with hundreds of survivors in therapy and as a forensic exam accompaniment volunteer, worked with colleagues in law enforcement and advocacy, witnessed and testified in criminal and civil cases, and have a much better understanding of why women (or men) don't come forward about their assaults. Let's take the politics out of this for a moment and just talk about the general dynamics of why someone would or wouldn't report their assault to law enforcement or their parents or their therapist or anyone else. 

• They are in shock. You know that feeling you get after a car accident or a natural disaster, where you kind of question if what just happened was real? Ninety-four percent of women who are raped experience PTSD in the two weeks following their assault. (https://www.rainn.org/statistics/victims-sexual-violence). The symptoms of PTSD are: 
• re-experiencing the trauma through flashbacks, nightmares, unwanted thoughts of the event, and physical reactivity to the event 
• trauma related thoughts or reminders 
• negative thoughts or feelings (inability to recall details, negative thoughts about oneself, exaggerated blaming of self, difficulty feeling positive) 
• trauma arousal (difficulty sleeping, irritability, risky or destructive behavior, aggression, hypervigilence, difficulty concentrating) (https://www.ptsd.va.gov/professional/ptsd-overview/dsm5_criteria_ptsd.asp)

These symptoms impair functioning, and many survivors are still trying to work, go to school, or have productive lives. They may be using all of their emotional energy to just survive and continue at the status quo, yet they are having flashbacks, difficulty remembering details of the event, negative thoughts about themselves, negative thoughts about the potential outcome, and the potential for destructive behaviors. So the very thing that a survivor would come forward about is creating barriers to them coming forward. 

• They fear it was their fault. Culturally, we do a lot of victim-blaming. If a stranger punched me in the face at a bar, no one would ask me what I was wearing, whether I was drinking, and no one would say maybe I was "asking for it". If a car ran a red light and smashed into my car, no one would ask if I was sexually active, or if I had been flirting with that car, or if I had ever allowed that car to smash into me in the past. We also know women can also kiss men, dance with men, and talk to men without owing them sex, yet survivors often blame themselves for engaging with their assailants at a previous point. 
• They don't want to get in trouble. This is particularly true with underaged teens/adults and alcohol use. Survivors think that if they were drinking and they report that to law enforcement, they will get in trouble for the drinking or possession of alcohol. Younger teens may fear getting in trouble with their parents for not being where they were supposed to be. 
• They don't remember everything.  Sometimes people dissociate during a traumatic event, which is the body's way of protecting and distancing itself from the trauma. This is sometimes described as an out of body experience or zoning out, and it can actually lower the body's stress hormone, cortisol. Sometimes people hyper focus on one specific yet insignificant thing, like the curtains in the room or the pattern in the carpet as a form of dissociation. Then it makes sense that they don't remember all the details of the assault, since their brain was actively working to block it out. Additionally, some people may remember specific details about the assault, but their brain involuntarily dissociates when they talk about it, in order to protect itself from re-experiencing the trauma. When you add the potential for roofies and other drugs or alcohol, it's no wonder survivors don't remember every detail. I barely remember yesterday and I didn't have any trauma. 
• They didn't run away. We hear sometimes about the fight or flight response, but that term is a little outdated. It is now commonly referred to as the fight, flight, or freeze response, since we often freeze when we are in danger. This is another biological process that keeps us safe, and has saved many a life. And yet, we don't talk as much about freezing as a valid response to stress, and survivors tend to think that if they didn't run away, it wasn't really an assault. 
• They fear law enforcement won't take them seriously. Sometimes this fear is for good reason. I've worked with clients where law enforcement officers have been their assailants, or good ole boy cops haven't wanted to follow through in pressing charges because the alleged perpetrator "is a good guy" and "a family man" and officers are hesitant to get involved. We are lucky to have a lot of good law enforcement with good training here, but why would a survivor know or trust that? They may have heard the true and horrific stories of friends and acquaintances who had negative experiences with law enforcement. 
• It wasn't violent. Sometimes the aggression isn't physical, but emotional. It's coercion, or the survivor is drunk and can't consent, or there are threats involved. If a survivor doesn't have bruises to prove they were "attacked" they may feel they can't be taken seriously, or that it wasn't a crime. 
• They fear they will bring shame or embarrassment to their families. Can you imagine if everyone aired all your dirty laundry all over your town? Including the circumstances that dirtied your laundry, and the fact that you had been doing so and so with so and so just last week. And don't forget the opinions that you are probably just retaliating because of that one thing that happened that one time, and that you want to drag his/her name through the mud, because those opinions will definitely get shared too. This is amplified if the survivor is a male, or homosexual, or the target of a hate crime. 
• They fear they'll have to testify. The truth is most sexual assaults cases never make it to trial. But TV crime dramas know that non-reporting and non-trial cases don't make for good tv, so if our experience is based on what we've seen on tv, we don't usually have that perspective. Survivors often don't want to face their perpetrator again, and certainly don't want to have to do so in front of others and under oath. (https://www.rainn.org/statistics/criminal-justice-system).

• They fear it won't go to trial. If survivors have heard of the statistics above, they may wonder what's the point in reporting if it doesn't change anything? 
• They love the alleged perpetrator. Perpetrators are boyfriends. Girlfriends. Husbands. Wives. Fathers. Uncles. Grandfathers. Grandmothers. If there is a cycle of abuse or assault, the perpetrator may also provide the survivor with gifts, praise, nurturance, care, and fun experiences. Coming forward would mean the person they care about may be removed from their life, and making the assaults go away may not seem worth that loss. 
• They didn't know it was abuse/assault. Children who have been abused are often groomed to think the sexual assault is normal. Women who are assaulted by their husbands may not know that legally a husband can be convicted of raping his wife.  (Spousal rape is now illegal in all 50 states, but at least two states did not pass that until 1993. 1993! South Carolina law (SECTION 16-3-615) still requires the use or threat of using a weapon in order to be charged with sexual battery of a spouse.). The "boys will be boys" mentality means that we expect sexualized behavior from boys and often miss that it may be missing consent. 
• They don't want their families/friend groups/careers ruined. Coming forward will tear people apart. Family members take sides. Friends stop talking to each other. Career opportunities are lost. Sometimes it's just not worth risking everything someone has to share publicly or even privately about an assault, especially when sharing is already a gamble and may not lead to an arrest. If the abuser was a person in power like a boss or clergy or parent figure, they may not want to remove that person from the other people in the office, church, or family. 
• They are ashamed. Following sexual assault, many survivors feel worthless. I've heard survivors say that they must've deserved to be raped, and they don't deserve justice. Thirty three percent of sexual assault survivors contemplate suicide. If there's nothing worth living for, why would they come forward? (https://www.rainn.org/statistics/victims-sexual-violence) 
• They are reclaiming their power. Sexual assault is a crime of power. Survivors have had power taken away and dignity taken away, and the choice to come forward or not is one way they may be reclaiming their own power, dignity and voice. 
• They fear the reactions of their loved ones. I've heard many survivors say they knew they couldn't come forward because their father or other loved one would have killed the perpetrator, and they couldn't stand to lose that family member/support person to a potential lifetime prison sentence. 
• They fear retaliation. The thought of publicly testifying against or even privately stating that someone in a position of power has hurt another person can be terrifying. The more high profile the case, the bigger a problem this is. If I tell you Johnny assaulted me, I risk it getting back to him and him trying to hurt me or threaten me to be quiet. If I say it on the stand and it makes the local paper, I may have Johnny's family to worry about retaliating too. If I say it to our whole community and as a result our priest has to leave, I risk all the parishioners of our church getting mad. If I say it on national tv, I risk having every Bill Cosby fan for the last 40 years angry with me and many of them looking to prove it.
• They fear they won't be believed.  This week has proven this fear is still a valid one in this country. Juries (and facebook posters) expect DNA evidence in sexual assault cases even though the majority don't have DNA evidence, and even with physical evidence, it could still be a case of he said/she said. People point out holes in survivor's stories. We question the legitimacy of the complaint, the actions of the survivor, the timing of the allegation, and the motivation of the survivor. I've seen some facebook posts fearing for their boys in the aftermath of the #metoo movement, insinuating that someone could accuse their boys of anything, and they would have their names tarnished by the accusation. Interestingly enough, with all this data showing that women are fearful they won't be believed, we are still fearful they will be. 

We may never know what happened between Kavanaugh and Dr. Ford, and thankfully it's not my job to make that determination. What I do know is that one in three women and one in six men will be victims of contact sexual violence in their lifetime (https://www.nsvrc.org/statistics), meaning out of my roughly 1300 facebook friends, approximately 288 will have an assault story in their life. Maybe they already have. Because of the dynamics above, many of them will hold or are currently holding that secret in silence, feeling that the risk is too great to share. They are our friends. Our daughters. Our sisters. Our co-workers. Our people. And they are reading every post that I write, and that you write, and getting a better understanding of our take on sexual assault and our support for survivors. I hope that during this time we think about more than Kavanaugh and Dr. Ford and the supreme court and the republicans vs the democrats. I hope we are also thinking of our friends and family who are reading our words and knowing whether we would blame them for their own assault if we knew about it. When in doubt, I pray we lean in toward kindness and love for each other, and speak up for those who may be reading in silence. 

BeYoYo is Four

Poor second kid, his birthday blog post comes a month after his birthday. In my defense, there haven't been many posts at all lately because time for writing has been a luxury we haven't had.

BeYoYo turned four on August 3rd. It was a much anticipated day, and he came downstairs when he woke up like a princess descending a staircase knowing her royal subjects are awaiting. The Husband had gotten him doughnuts for breakfast, and he was delighted with his gifts. He loves all animals, but especially horses. He asks for horses for any and every occasion, and he names them and loves them all. He has also branched out into horse accessories and horse riders to go with his horses. His favorite rider he named Pinocchio. Another is named Tyler. They have barns and horses and stalls and feed and saddles and pitch forks.

He is my sensitive and emotive child. His heart breaks for others who are hurting or even cartoons who have not resolved their cartoon dilemmas. He is generally pleasant and grateful for everything. If he asks for a drink of water and you say yes, he responds with "hooray!" When he thinks something is funny, he laughs in a deep, guttural laugh that is contagious.

He is proud of anything he does that he thinks is big and grown. He thinks everything his brother does is cool. He has just started soccer for the first time, and he ran his very first 1 mile fun run two weeks ago. He finished, and said he only had to walk a few times to catch his breath. When we are leaving church, a row of ducklings headed to the car, sometimes he circles back to me and says "I didn't want you to be alone, mama." 

He loves adventures, but he is more cautious than his brother. Anything that spins too fast or goes to high will absolutely make him sick.  We went to Six Flags for the boys' birthday, and he loved doing the small kiddie rides with his cousin. There was no line, so they would ride the boats, get off, go through the line and get immediately back on for another turn.  

He loves school, and was exasperated that his preschool didn't start for two weeks after his brother started elementary school. He absolutely does not want his hair fixed so that he looks handsome, he wants to just look "yegular". Also, don't let his tenderness fool you. If he is the slightest bit annoyed with something you're saying, he's the eye-roll champion. Here are his answers to the annual birthday questions.

How old are you? 

Four

What’s your favorite thing to do? 

play Pinocchio 

What do you want to be when you grow up? 

everything

What’s your favorite food? 

pizza

What’s something you’re good at? 

teaching

What makes you laugh? 

when you tickle me

What’s something scary?

outside darkness

Who’s your best friend? 

Rhys

What do you like to do with your family? 

go on night rides

Where do you like to go? 

Great Gran's

What do you like to learn about? 

you can be everything. And I like to watch PonySitter's. And somepin I love is mom, write that. 

Seven Under Ten

We now have seven kids under ten on our annual beach trip, and my SIL said we've hit a sweet spot with the kids now that they are older. We had no babies this year, no one in diapers, no one who needed to go up for a nap (except for me), and maybe we had fewer meltdowns than in years past. The kids can also hang for longer periods at the beach or the pool, so if we pack some drinks and snacks we can stay out awhile. It was overall a positive trip.

Now that all of our kids are a little older (BeYoYo is the youngest, at 3) it also means other people can take care of them. Our annual beach trip has always been a little bit of a commune experience with everybody pitching in for everybody, but it felt like even more so this year. The cousins want to be together, but sometimes they want to be doing different things. So I'd take one of mine and one of someone else's to the pool, someone else would be at the beach with one of mine and one of theirs, and someone else would have two of theirs and one of someone else's on the way to town. And there was always a body that needed sunscreening, a mouth that needed wiping, and goggles that needed adjusting. You could open a business at the beach just applying sunscreen and adjusting goggles to other people's kids. I'd pay for that.

not her kid

not his kid

not his kid

not his kid

not his kid(s) and uncle Garth is a trooper for doing this all day

not my kid (in fairness, I didn't ask her to stop using her fork as a hairbrush at a restaurant, I just took a picture of it for my own entertainment)

And whenever we're all together, the sisters in law are continually counting children under our breath.  We enjoy each other, so it's one part conversation, one part counting kids, and one part helping the children not hurt each other. "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7...... yeah, I agree, that one blogger is ridiculous with what she feeds her kids. My kids would starve if I served them beets and tomatoes.....1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6.......oh, 7........ Don't jump on top of him, you've got to wait until he's out of the way before you jump in! 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, ......who are we missing......where's BeYoYo? Oh, there he is, he was peeing over on the side.....So, how's your mama doing? 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7."

One day we were out on the beach and all the kids were playing, and 3 other kids who we don't know were playing intermingled with ours, and it was sometimes hard to tell who was who. So we just started counting to 10 to make sure everyone was accounted for. As long as there were 10 total bodies, we were good.

The it-takes-a-village dynamic was never more present than when The Boy stepped on a cactus. Actually, it might have been stronger about 30 seconds later when his brother ALSO stepped on a cactus. We saw 3 cacti the whole time we were at the beach, and my kids managed to step on two of them. We were leaving our beach house and headed down to the beach, and The Boy was going to run and catch up with some cousins ahead of us. He took a short cut through the grass and screamed for me to come help. Not knowing why he was screaming, I didn't hurry, because you know the mom has to carry 100 things down to the beach and I was gathering all our stuff. Then the screaming intensified, and I realized BeYoYo was now screaming too. I put down the stuff and ran to The Boy, who had one of these dangling down from his foot. He was hopping and screaming, shrieking, crying in pain, and crying again when he'd look at it.

Uncle Grant grabbed BeYoYo and I pulled the cactus out of The Boy's foot. He screamed and pushed against me, unappreciative of the spur going in or out. After I got the cactus out, there were still multiple additional spurs sticking in him. But BeYoYo was also screaming with cacti stuck in him, and he was sitting in uncle Grant's lap in the driveway crying for his mama. The Husband had already gone to the beach and was unaware that any of this was going on. So I told The Boy to wait a minute and I went to tend to BeYoYo. Meanwhile, aunt Rachel picked up The Boy and took him inside to get tweezers. He continued to scream. While Grant held BeYoYo I started helping him pull spurs out too. Grant would point one out to me and hold the foot still,  I would use my fingernails to get a good grip and yank it out, and BeYoYo would wail. When we got most of HIS spurs out I went inside to check on the status of the boy.  

I heard him wailing before I saw him. I followed the sound upstairs, where I saw him on the sofa surrounded by cousins, Aunt Rachel, and Bebe. His Papa was holding him and holding some very serious tweezers that looked more like scissors. Papa was simultaneously trying to hold him, convince him to cooperate, and trying to remove the remaining spurs with the tweezers. I'm not sure The Boy understood what was happening, because he was wailing "NOOOOO! Don't cut me! Don't cut me!" in his most panicked fight or flight voice, and he was both fighting and flighting what I can only imagine he assumed to be some sort of medieval torture device. He was using all his might to try to get away, thrashing around like an animal that has just been hit by a car and doesn't know where safety is. His family was surrounding him, offering him words of encouragement, but it was not going well for anyone. I busted up that party and he reached for me to save him. I carried him downstairs, away from the crowd, to try to calm him. It was only partially successful, as he did still have multiple spurs in his foot. He yelled "WHYYYYYY are there cactus at the BEEEEEACH?" and  sobbed "Tonight I'm going to tell God that I hate cactus and I wish he'd never made them!" I told him he didn't have to wait until tonight, he could tell God right then, but that did not help. We set about to the difficult task at hand though neither of us really wanted to be involved. 

I will spare you all the details, but suffice it to say eventually he and I decided that I would go to the beach and he would stay up at the beach house with Papa. I regathered the beach things that I'd abandoned earlier and headed down to meet the rest of the fam. Grant had soaked BeYoYo's feet in the pool and taken him down to the beach with his crew. I felt like I'd just survived an explosion and was questioning if it had really happened. I had no idea if 15 minutes had passed or an hour and a half. When I got down to the beach to join the others, Rachel and Danielle had my chair ready, as well as a can of wine. They are the best sister-wives because they take care of me in addition to my kids. We resumed our counting of children and vacation continued post-minor-medical-emergency.

And of course we did the annual Magness family beach pictures, which were disastrous as usual. Imagine 8 adults all yelling orders for seven children to go in four different directions, and you'll get the idea. "You're standing in her shadow, no the light isn't good right there, let go of his hand, why are you holding a stick? Put the stick down. No, don't throw it. What are you doing? Turn around. No, not you, your brother. I know it's hot, I'm hot too. The sooner you cooperate the sooner we go in. Look over here, look at the camera, now SMILE!" 

Once you get the last one turned around and in formation, another one turns the wrong way. It's like a litter of puppies all crawling over each other and heading in different directions even though they've got nowhere to be. So someone hollers and drill sergeants them back into formation. Then six are turned the right way, but two of them got silly and bent over, one is trying to shrug off another, and one is still turned around backward.

Right after this one there were tears about the removal of sunglasses

And this is what happened when I was trying to take BeYoYo's picture and uncle Garth said "who wants ice cream?" This is a child who knows he's invited to that party. 

This next one I've zoomed in on, to show you the full effect. These children were supposed to be ready for the camera. There were even jelly bean rewards involved. AND THIS IS WHAT WE GET. I've got 3 good shots from the beach and dozens of pictures like this one. 

I just looked through all our beach pictures, and I think this last one was my very favorite. Unpolished. Not smiling. Dirty. Skeptical. Unicorn horns, complaints, and pleas. It's the most accurate portrayal of our week. If only it had sound (so much sound) you might get a feel for spending a week with 7 under 10 this year.