So, some asshole decided to leave a message in my guestbook explaining, apparently to the world, what a slut I am, and how I'm an unfit mother.
Many apologies to all of you for removing it as a public message. I know it's very important that some of you find out exactly what kind of a slut I am, and exactly how evil of a parent I am. But I decided to make it a private message because I didn't want to leave it there to invoke anybody else's wrath. I have it on good faith that such a message would seriously piss off a friend of mine or two, and it's not worth their time or effort to get upset or angry on anybody's account. Besides, the specific details of my sluttiness and my bad parenting were inaccurate. As the former editor-in-chief of my high school newspaper, and a former copy editor of my college newspaper, I have this real THING for accurate information.
Ohhhh, slutty, slutty Helena! What a wicked, wicked girl! Send that one straight to hell.
If you would like to know specifics about my sluttiness or bad parenting, please don't hesitate to email me and ask. Admittedly, I'd done a few things of which I'm not proud, but nothing I'm so ashamed of that I wouldn't admit to it if somebody asked, particularly if it were somebody important.
Oh, Helena, you slut. You slut and you wicked mother.
For accuracy's sake, there are two things I would like to clarify...
One, I do not smoke, and have not smoked in quite a number of months. The last time I "cheated" and had a cigarette was May 2nd. I had a couple of cigarettes that day. I remember the date because I still feel bad about it. I told my doctor about it, and he said not to worry about it. He also congratulated me for quitting. It only took me a couple of days to quit, mostly because in early pregnancy, I was tired all the time, and it's hard to smoke when you're asleep. The nicotine patches didn't work; they made me restless and a little paranoid, and I got bad insomnia. So, I just quit. Admittedly, I have insisted that other people smoke in front of me, because the majority of my addiction is the visual stimulation (ohh! "stimulation"! I'm such a big old whore!). My friends and associates know damn well better than to blow smoke in my face or any such dumb thing as that.
Furthermore, in case anyone was wondering, I don't drink or use any other chemical enhancements in my body, unless you count chocolate and decaf coffee. Chocolate's too expensive most of the time, and decaf coffee is a rare treat.
Generally, I treat my body pretty damned well. I could probably get a little more exercise. I could probably stop insisting that ice cream IS a breakfast food. But I treat my body well. Why? Because there's a freaking HUMAN BEING in it, OTHER than myself, and I want her to be a cute, fat, well-developed little thing when she's born. I'd rather not see her born with weak muscles, or allergies, or half-developed organs. I want my kid to be healthy, dammit. If I can give her that, I'll give her that. So, I don't smoke.
And secondly... I never in my life had a room-mate who watched me "get banged from behind." I did have two room-mates who regularly "banged" each other (loudly) in my shower. And I had a couple of girls who shared a bathroom with me in the Evergreen dorms who apparently regularly used the bathroom together for what sounded like obscene purposes, although perhaps not "banging" in its strictest definition. Oh, and Louise and I had a system of placing a rubber band on the doorknob if we wanted the other to knock before entering the room -- and each of us failed to adhere to that system once. Once, she got caught in the act with somebody, and once, I got caught with somebody naked. But no room-mate of mine ever watched me "get banged from behind."
Man, for being such a slut, it's kinda funny I've never been watched while I was getting banged from behind.
Anyway... Just for accuracy's sake, I thought I'd clarify those things...
So, whatever. I don't need to address any of that anymore. If you have questions or concerns, don't hesitate to let me know, and we can work them out together.
But there is one thing I would like to address from the guestbook message that was posted earlier. Much as I hate to, it seems appropriate for me to repost the relevant lines of that message here:
Just because you are in "love" with someone you WISH was the daddy of your baby does not mean we forget how you really are.
You are killing you baby anyway and the real dad should step in to save his little girl from you.
Okay, so, I think it's important to talk about what makes a "real" dad.
I have been lucky enough to know a few real dads in my life. I'm a big fan of real dads. A couple of times, there have been instances where the love of a real dad for his kid has brought me to tears. At least one real dad that I know isn't the biological father of his son, but he's one of the absolute best fathers anybody could imagine. As I'm sure his son would agree.
It takes a lot more than genes to make somebody a "real" dad. I mean, correct me if I'm wrong, but it doesn't take a whole hell of a lot of effort and toil on a man's part to actually "create life," as it were. Hell, the man doesn't even do much in the way of "creating," just supplies a key ingredient. I mean, if you're making a stew, and you've grown the carrots and brought them into the kitchen, it don't make you a chef, if you see what I'm saying.
All things considered, a genetic father really only has to expend a little bit of energy, and give a minute or two of his time. Can you honestly say that this makes a person a FATHER?
Well, okay, there are certain things that tend to make that man a father. Things like hair color, and eye color, and body type, and genetic diseases and things. And a few things that aren't as obvious... My handwriting is nearly identical to my mother's, and my brothers' more strongly resembles our biological father's. Nearly everyone from my biological father's side of the family has this weird trait of sometimes balancing on one foot, with the other foot propped against the knee, like a heron. I suppose it's genetic more than environmental, because it's a very comfortable position for my body to be in, whereas it's just NOT for other people. So, yeah, we get certain things from the men who bring the carrots into the kitchen. I never said carrots were useless in stew. Just that they don't make you the chef.
What makes a chef, as opposed to a carrot-grower, or somebody who stirs up a pan of Campbell's and calls it dinner, is the time and love and energy that he puts into his work. I am aware of how corny that sounds. Work with me anyway.
A "real" father, like a real chef, is a man who loves his kid. Not because he HAS to. Not because there's anything in it for HIM. Not because he's excited to see if his kid will stand on one leg a lot, or have his eyes, or whatever. Not because he's afraid he'll lose the love of the child's mother unless he sticks around. Not even because it's "the right thing to do." A real dad loves his kid. Just because.
Along with this is the idea that a real dad would never deliberately hurt his kid, and, indeed, would go FAR out of his way to avoid doing so.
I heard about a biological father once who locked his kid in a closet without food or water, for at least a day. I think it was more like two or three days, but I don't remember the details. The kid was little more than a baby at the time, and the "dad" was busy getting loaded with some lady friends, if I remember right. I met an eleven-year-old girl once -- an absolutely beautiful little thing -- whose biological father had stabbed the child's mother in the abdomen when she (the mother) was eight months' pregnant. These are people I KNOW, not people from newspapers. I have known people whose fathers sexually molested them. I have known people whose fathers allowed them to be sexually molested and never said a word of condemnation. I had a friend once who had nothing to eat, and was living in his own apartment for the first time, and his biological father refused to lend him ten dollars for a couple of packages of pasta. Refused, even, to invite him over to share in his (the father's) own supply of pasta. It was MY mother -- who barely KNEW my friend -- who brought him a cardboard box of noodles and rice and canned vegetables and cereal.
A "real" dad does not say things like, "why don't you just do the honorable thing and have an abortion?"
A "real" dad does not question, repeatedly, whether or not he IS the "real" dad. Nor does he encourage his friends and family to do so.
A "real" dad does not wake up his child's mother at three in the morning, and tell her to leave, and that he doesn't care where she ends up, even if it happens to be on a sidewalk.
A "real" dad does not hit the child's mother, or strangle the child's mother, or push the child's mother, or restrain the child's mother while he screams at her.
A "real" dad does not say that he is "transcendental enough" to kill his unborn child, presumably without physically beating up the mother.
A "real" dad does not tell the mother of his child that, should she attempt to leave him, he would take her to court and destroy her in custody battles, ensuring that she and the child would never see each other again.
A "real" dad doesn't talk about not wanting to pay child support. A "real" dad gives what support he can, no matter what. This is why I don't like the idea of court-mandated child support. A "real" dad is not obligated by law to comply with child support payments; he pays them because he wants his kid to have a decent life.
The person who posted in my guestbook would have the "real" dad of my daughter come "rescue" her from me, presumably because I smoke, which isn't actually the case at all. Even assuming I DID smoke, her "real" dad smoked too -- nearly double the number of cigarettes I smoked, and with a set of really shitty lungs. And even though we had both always smoked outside, I asked him if he wouldn't mind quitting with me -- or at least cutting down -- as moral support. He refused my request. He also spent his evenings out with his friends smoking pot, despite the fact that he was subject to random urinalyses by his probation officer. One hot piss test, and he'd have gone to jail for a year, no contesting it. Is THIS a man who's capable of "rescuing" a child, even supposing I were somebody from whom she'd need rescuing?
Should a man who wanted my baby to die, via an abortion, or via his own "transcendental" powers, or via his own hands, really be the one to "rescue" her from me?
Should he be allowed to call himself a "dad" after telling me that he didn't care what happened to me, or to her? Should he be allowed to be a "father" after he told his family that he didn't think he WAS, in fact, the "real father"? After he encouraged his friends and family to repeatedly harass me about a paternity test? After he punched my chest and told me he hated me and didn't care what happened to me or my baby?
To me, this is not a "real dad." Frankly, this isn't anybody I'd want near my kid. This IS the person to whom the mysterious guestbook-signer refers as the "real dad."
I suppose that my daughter will look a little like him. Maybe she'll get his hair -- which would be beautiful -- or his height. Or maybe something else, like his love of Star Trek. Maybe she'll get his facial structure, or his rebellious nature. Maybe she'll write in tiny little printed letters that one needs a microscope to discern. Maybe she'll have a taste for collard greens and cornbread. That would be okay, although I'll be damned if I'll be cooking collard greens any damned time soon. I wouldn't mind if she shared a few traits with him. There were many traits about him that I admired greatly, or we wouldn't have been together so long. I hope her genes are a mixture of the best he could do, and the best I could do.
But other than that, I don't want him in her life. Not now, in any case. If she chooses to find him when she's older, I wouldn't stop her. But she will have a dad, and I don't think she will need another one.
A dad loves his kid. That's all.
A dad trusts that his kid is going to be smart enough not to get into TOO much trouble.
A dad beams when he watches ultrasound pictures, and then shows the still photos to everybody who will pay any attention.
A dad pays more attention to his unborn child than he pays to much of anything else, as though getting kicked in the nose were infinitely more important than anything else with which he might preoccupy himself. A dad talks to his baby in a soft voice and tells her he loves her, whether or not he thinks anybody else can hear.
A dad wants to give his child all of the good things he had as a kid. Only better.
A dad loves his kid. Regardless. He loves her more than anything or anybody.
My daughter has a real dad. They love each other, perhaps even more than either of them loves me. That's perfectly fine by me, because I couldn't have chosen anybody better for the other. They chose each other. And they love each other. They both deserve as much love in their lives as they can get, and I couldn't be happier for either of them.
It's raining outside. I think I'm going to take a short walk.
~Helena*
(who isn't really a slut, and who loves her daughter...)