Yesterday I stood beside the casket of the man one of my sisters loved with all her heart, and watched in agony as she bid him farewell. She spoke to him from her heart. She whispered in his ear, stroked his hair, kissed his lips. I had promised myself and my sister that I would be there for her support, but for a few moments, my mind was reeling at the love and strength that I saw. My sister was clothed in a snazzy skirt and heels, but when I looked at her through my overflowing eyes, I saw her gleaming in armor. My sister was a warrior of love and grief, and she conquered both.

For months now, I have been reading and researching warriors, and battles, and bravery. I have written on my heart the names of women and men who have given their lives for a cause they believed in. I have found myself amazed, stunned, frightened, breathless, and occasionally filled with a sense of wild exhiliration. From the time that Joshua fought the battle of Jericho, history is chock-full of warriors who have laid down life and lance for what they believed in. I have no concrete reason for this research, beyond the fact that I felt compelled to do it. But this evening it hit me that I have been surrounded by warriors my entire life, and that I carry a sizable shield myself.

I rose before the sun on the morning we were to bury my sisters' husband, determined to steal just a few moments to myself....to sort my thoughts and catch my breath, and to raise a few fervent prayers for the day ahead. Text messages were buzzing in from friends and family, as were email messages from the office and school.....all of which I successfully ignored until just one caught my eye. With a racing heart and turning stomach, I read a message that informed me that my ex-husband had somehow stolen a photo from my Facebook page, and posted it on his own. A photo of two of my children, both his former victims....a photo I had snapped in my very own kitchen on Easter morning of this year. I realize that the phrase, "I feel violated" is often used as a punchline these days. That aside, there is no other term that can more aptly describe my reaction.

Once upon a time I described myself as a victim of domestic violence. Then....after time (and extensive therapy and soul-searching) I called myself a survivor. Both statements are factual. But I write this tonight as a warrior - a warrior against domestic violence, yes. But more specifically, I am waging a war against the man who bestowed upon me those titles, the monster I continue to fight, and the sociopath who sees nothing wrong with stealing and posting photos of his former victims.

The day will come when the state of Washington will decree that said monster is permitted to be in the same room with my innocent, precocious, larger-than-life daughter Penelope. Parental rights aside, Penelope has done nothing to deserve such treatment. She has never been exposed to evil or depravity. She thinks that rainbows are real, that Santa Claus is in the nearest chimney, and that my kisses truly heal all boo-boos. She loves and adores a man that she calls Daddy of her own accord, and he is not the creep who claims her as if she is a piece of furniture. Her tenacity and her intelligence are inspiring, and I will never stop swinging on her behalf.

I have a nine-year old son who still flinches if you reach for him too quickly. I have a nine-year old daughter who cannot bear to be startled. I cannot stand the smell of vanilla, the sound of rap music, or any surprise that is orchestrated outside of my knowledge. I have a costly and ridiculous security system on my house that I activate nightly, and years worth of sleepless nights that I have logged, checking and re-checking locks and watching out darkened windows.

There was a time when I wanted nothing more than to bury my story. Those were the days when I still assumed the shame of what was done to me, and to my children. But here's the scoop...I didn't ask to be abused, nor did my children. We were conned....manipulated...bamboozled, if you will. And now our warrior eyes are wide open, and trained on the one person responsible.

I ask you this, and only this. Read our story. Post it. And post it again. I know that I am not the only woman or mother in this position, but perhaps I am the only warrior brave enough to speak the truth.

There was a time when I woke every morning to look into the face of abuse and cruelty and deception. I am sharing my story because I swore to myself some time ago that I would not allow any other innocent women and children to suffer. As Yehuda Bauer once said, and as I remind myself every day, "Thou shalt not be a victim, thou shalt not be a perpetrator, but, above all, thou shalt not be a bystander.”

Tiny Bubbles

It's been a while since I wrote anything worth posting (in my humble opinion) on this little blog of mine. It occurs to me that I've been living in a bubble, provided by the state of Washington via a domestic violence protection order. Bubbles don't last forever....and sadly, neither do protective orders. So tomorrow, in the middle of a busy day at the office, I will go behind closed doors and wait for a call from the Family Court in Washington state. I know that my attorney will be on the other end, as will a Judge and a stenographer, and I expect that my evil ex-husband will be there as well.

You see, my beautiful little daughter Penelope turned three years old today....and for me, that means my days as of late have been filled with cupcakes and Dora bracelets and pale pink balloons...and after all of the party favors are cleaned up and everyone goes home, I wrestle with my fear into the wee hours of almost every morning.

Penelope has had a domestic violence protective order in place since the tender age of one. The state of Washington only grants protective orders of this type for one year at a time for minor children, in the hopes that the abuser will mend his/her ways and suddenly emerge as a model parent. If there were an icon for dripping sarcasm, this would be the place to insert it. So, August of 2011 was spent writing motions and wrapping presents.....and we all got the gift we wanted the most.....a swimming pool for Penelope, and a protective order for another year. Now here I am another year later, asking for another year of protection for my daughter. The financial cost of this process is literally smothering me. I expect to make a monthly payment to my attorney in Washington for the rest of my life. I cannot begin to describe the emotional toll that this process exacts.

I don't talk about this openly or with any sense of ease, as it is painful and yes, still shameful to me. But every year when I write a motion and beg the court to further protect my daughter, I am required to recall the past. I have to write motions and eventually give testimony about the war zone in which my kids and I lived, and that nearly breaks my heart. I was raised with the mantra, "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all." It makes me laugh now, remembering some paperwork that I had to fill out for the court in Washington two years ago....some idiot handed me a form that asked me to say something "nice" about my ex-husband. The only thing I could come up with was, "He is tall." I said something nice. Now I am speaking only the truth. And tall, short, or otherwise, he is dangerous.

If you are reading this, pray. Pray for my strength tomorrow, and pray that I am given the fortitude to say what the Judge needs to hear. Pray that Penelope passes safely from 3 to 4 years of age without being exposed to evil. Pray that I eventually go to bed and sleep. Pray that Roan and Posey are no longer afraid. Pray that the birthday wishes that I sent up on Penelopes' behalf are granted.

I have my notes prepared for tomorrow, and at the top of them is a verse that has been sent to me over and over.....2 Corinthians 3:12 "Since we have such a hope we act with great boldness."

I have hope. Pray for boldness.

Things I Like....and Things I Do Not

Things That I Like:

-The smell of clean laundry.
-The smell of your skin when you come in from a walk or run on a cold, windy day.
-Chocolate.
-Giggling. I think there is far too little giggling in this world. I intend to change that.
-When Sadie dreams, and her little dog legs twitch, and she yelps in her sleep. I like to imagine that she is dreaming of walking on a doggie runway somewhere, and that she is yelping everytime a young pup throws a rose in her direction.
-Turtlenecks. Yep, I said it. I do!
-Taking a shower before I take a bath, to avoid sitting in my own filth.
-A warm hoodie.
-Waking up in the middle of the night, looking at the clock and realizing I have several hours of sleep still coming my way.
-Puppy breath.
-Tiny silverware. I cannot resist it, and have been known to slip it into my purse or my bra on occasion.
-Kissing. Oooooowwwweeeeeee do I love me some kissing!
-High heeled shoes, both shopping for and wearing.
-Poetry, but only if I can understand it.
-Childrens' books written in rhyme. So much easier to read.
-Snuggling. Spooning. Holding hands, pinching behinds, and waking up in the middle of the night to find his hand on my hip. Is there any better middle-of-the-night feeling?
-The freedom to be completely honest.
-Eye contact.
-Slipping into my home pants and slipping off my bra at the end of a long day.
-New projects.
-Music. Music. Music.
-Laundry. The sorting, the washing, the drying, the folding. I get a charge out of knowing I have filled the closets and dressers in my home with fresh, clean laundry.
-Pooping. Look, Freud had plenty to say about it, but I think it is great.
-New tennis shoes.
-The stars, and the wonder of lying in the backyard or the driveway and looking at them with people you love.
-A warm car on a winter morning.
-Being Dutch.
-Peroxide.


And conversely, Things I Do Not Like:

-Bullies. They bite the big one.
-Taxes.
-Stains on my carpet.
-Stinky bathrooms. Have you ever noticed that the bathrooms at drive-in movie theaters are the most foul?
-Arrogance.
-When my dog digs in the trash for diapers...and finds them.
-Dirty ears.
-Freezing rain.
-Cold toes - mine, or that of my children.
-The life envy I experience when I watch a Lifetime movie.
-The miles that separate me and my sisters.
-Interrupting. Seriously, now.
-People who judge other people.
-AKA...self-righteous behavior.
-Creepy men.
-Women in the workplace who don't support other women in the workplace.
-Women who work outside the home who don't support women who stay home.
-Women who stay home who don't respect women who work outside.
-Any person (male or female) who refers to Father/Child Time as "babysitting". Oh, hell to the no.
-Gossip. Save it for 90210, people.
-People who post on Facebook what they are making for dinner, or how many loads of laundry they have washed. Seriously....nobody cares. Say something funny or inspiring, or say nothing at all.
-Unibrows. My son is 8, and I am already talking to him about the wonders of waxing...
-The strong, silent type. Be strong. But for the love of all that is good and holy, don't be silent.

Things We Can Count On

A wise friend recently told me that I should write just how I talk. I'm not sure everyone will agree, but it made sense to me. So tonight I'm on my couch, with my faithful sidekick Sadie snoring and farting beside me, and I'm talking. I guess I'm talking to you...

Here's the thing. I check out my brows in the mirror every day, and I tend to think they look just fine. But then every once in a while I glance in the rearview mirror and nearly gasp in horror to see my brows in the light of day. Good God, there are times when I make Brooke Shields look as if she has alopecia. It doesn't matter where I am headed, or if I am looking in the rearview mirror to see if the officer behind me has noticed my plates are expired.....only the brows matter at that point. And yes, that often means I pull into the parking lot at the office, grab the tweezers I keep in my car (yes, I do) and take care of those bad boys there and then. I've learned to improvise. One moment we think all is well, the next moment we are wildly plucking our brows in full view of our co-workers. This is the stuff of life. If you don't believe me, take a look at your brows, my friend.

Every night when I tuck Penelope into bed, I say to her, "Do you know what?" And every night, she looks me in the eye and she nods, with her signature grin. It nearly takes my breath away, despite the fact that this has been our routine for months. She does know. She knows that what I'm going to say next is, "I love you soooo much." I'm grateful and relieved and delighted that my 2 1/2 year old daughter knows without a doubt that I love her soooo much. It's a gift, and one that I wish we had all been given.

I make a habit of reminding myself, my staff and my kids that the one thing we can rely on in this world is that nothing remains the same. One of my favorite quotes has always been, "If you are going through hell, keep going." Sometimes, that is all we can do.

I returned to Iowa some time ago, skinny, scarred, and scared. There were many nights when I kept my composure just long enough to get my kids into their beds, after which I would crawl under my (borrowed) covers and cry into my (borrowed) pillow for hours. I cried so long and so hard that my eyes ached. I knew that the very next night, I would do the same. It was what I needed to do. I didn't miss my past life, or my past love (if you can call it that). I missed knowing how I would feel when I woke up in the morning. I missed the ability to look people in the eye. I missed knowing how to respond when kind-hearted people asked how I was doing. I missed the ability to walk down the street without feeling ashamed of what had happened to me. It is a huge cliche' but I missed me - the smart and sassy woman who didn't have second thoughts, and who didn't apologize for her opinions. I guess I was mourning the loss of that Dori, and the circumstances that brought me to that loss.

But every morning, when my alarm went off, I put my feet on the floor and I stepped into the next day. My heart wasn't always in it, but it was the right thing to do. I thank my Iowa work ethic, my Dutch heritage, and my parents for giving me the fortitude to keep breathing when everything in me wanted to give up, close my eyes, and stay under the covers. Oh, and having a screaming baby in a crib two feet away and two hungry seven-year olds circling my bed didn't hurt, either.

As it turns out, if you do just that...just keep going....one day you fall asleep because you are tired and content, and not because you have swallowed a sleeping pill. And one morning you wake up and you know it's okay to stay in your warm, cozy bed. Not because you want to avoid anything outside of that...but just because you are 40 and tired and you have a sweet, spitty toddler next to you who wants to snuggle. And one day, you look someone new in the eyes, and you aren't afraid anymore.

Much like my errant eyebrows, this change crept up on me. Without realizing it, I cry less. I laugh more. I let people into my life and into my heart, and I don't question their motives. I don't look over my shoulder as much. I sleep at night, and my dreams are filled with the wonderful strangeness of past highschool teachers and aquariums and fields of corn...and yes, those dreams where you go to school in your pajamas (do we ever get away from those?) I can't recall the last nightmare I had.

This very morning I woke up and I looked around my messy, haphazard bedroom, which is still lacking any artwork on the walls, but boasts an impressive collection of pacifiers on the nightstand. And in that moment between hitting snooze on my alarm clock and putting my hand up to feel how large my hair had become during the night, I smiled. Crazy eyebrows and crazy ex-husbands aside, I am one very lucky lady. And you know what? I love that. So. Much.