Enter the draggin'

This weekend we took Charlie to a Chinese restaurant, where he gamely tried five or six different dishes, fumbled adorably with one of those flat-bottomed plastic soup spoons, and then felled everyone within a three-table radius by flinging, with deadly precision, a handful of chopsticks into the hearts of his enemies.

I couldn't be prouder.  This is gonna look really good on his application to get into Wudang Mountain.  (I was hoping to homeschool him, but my Mantis Form is decidedly rusty.)

...

I thank you all for your comments on my last entry.  The majority I read with appreciation and gratitude — it means so much to me that you share your stories candidly.  But some comments I read with dismay.  "Consider adoption!"  "Imagine your sweet small son grieving your death."  "Oh, my God, you are so totally jealous of Michelle Duggar."

Ouch.

I appreciate the concern that motivated those comments, and trust in your good intentions.  I truly do.  So I'll say this in as neutral a manner as I can manage: I am not seeking opinions on whether Paul and I should attempt another pregnancy.  For that, I have doctors, a husband, and my conscience to guide me.  (We did consider making our reproductive plans the subject of a popular referendum, but we were just too worried that Florida would decide I should do something stupid.)

...

I am vulnerable right now, more than I've been in almost two years.  This is not a comfortable position.  "You don't sound like yourself," said one kind reader in e-mail.  While I still am myself, it's a sadder, quieter, less certain version.  One needing kindness, more tender than usual to criticism.

I know — have always known — that by writing at all I take risks.  I risk being disagreed with, of course, sometimes vehemently.  I risk being misunderstood, or, sometimes, being understood only too well.  I risk being found selfish, irresponsible, and ridiculously reckless.  I am okay with that.  If I weren't, I'd do as Saturday's fortune cookie advised:

(It also suggested I learn Chinese and tried to teach me how to say "duck," so, you know, take it for what it's worth.)

I would humbly ask that you understand what an intensely personal decision Paul and I are facing, and that you respect that, please, as you respond to my posts on the subject.

Or I'll have Charlie kick your ass.  His Controlling Dragon Tiger Form is off the fucking hook.

Posted by Julie at 12:33:27 PM in Welcome to the bad place. Population: You

Comments

Enter the draggin'

This weekend we took Charlie to a Chinese restaurant, where he gamely tried five or six different dishes, fumbled adorably with one of those flat-bottomed plastic soup spoons, and then felled everyone within a three-table radius by flinging, with deadly precision, a handful of chopsticks into the hearts of his enemies.

I couldn't be prouder.  This is gonna look really good on his application to get into Wudang Mountain.  (I was hoping to homeschool him, but my Mantis Form is decidedly rusty.)

...

I thank you all for your comments on my last entry.  The majority I read with appreciation and gratitude — it means so much to me that you share your stories candidly.  But some comments I read with dismay.  "Consider adoption!"  "Imagine your sweet small son grieving your death."  "Oh, my God, you are so totally jealous of Michelle Duggar."

Ouch.

I appreciate the concern that motivated those comments, and trust in your good intentions.  I truly do.  So I'll say this in as neutral a manner as I can manage: I am not seeking opinions on whether Paul and I should attempt another pregnancy.  For that, I have doctors, a husband, and my conscience to guide me.  (We did consider making our reproductive plans the subject of a popular referendum, but we were just too worried that Florida would decide I should do something stupid.)

...

I am vulnerable right now, more than I've been in almost two years.  This is not a comfortable position.  "You don't sound like yourself," said one kind reader in e-mail.  While I still am myself, it's a sadder, quieter, less certain version.  One needing kindness, more tender than usual to criticism.

I know — have always known — that by writing at all I take risks.  I risk being disagreed with, of course, sometimes vehemently.  I risk being misunderstood, or, sometimes, being understood only too well.  I risk being found selfish, irresponsible, and ridiculously reckless.  I am okay with that.  If I weren't, I'd do as Saturday's fortune cookie advised:

(It also suggested I learn Chinese and tried to teach me how to say "duck," so, you know, take it for what it's worth.)

I would humbly ask that you understand what an intensely personal decision Paul and I are facing, and that you respect that, please, as you respond to my posts on the subject.

Or I'll have Charlie kick your ass.  His Controlling Dragon Tiger Form is off the fucking hook.