.. mine is nearly at an end. Thank goodness court is on Thursday.

WE agreed on a 10pm ending visitation time on Mondays and Tuesdays.
WE agreed he would call me when he was picking up our son so he could have an open pickup time.
WE agreed on all the terms of the visitation agreement.

Not ME, not the COURT, not our ATTORNEYS, WE. WE WE WE WE WE!

So explain to me why he is attempting to make my life a living hell.

Problem 1: He wants to take our son to Georgia for eight days. The terms of the decree are no more than seven days at one time. It's only one extra day, but I can see the potential for abuse.
My Solution: Go ahead and go for eight days as long as you have him call me each day before bedtime.
His Response: No.
My Counter-Response: Then you can't have him for the eighth day. Work with me and I will work with you. Don't work with me, and I won't work with you. Simple as that.

Problem 2: He has open pickup times to accommodate his flexible work schedule. He can pick up our son NO LATER THAN 6pm on Mon and Tue and 4pm on Saturday. During the settlement conference, I stated this was acceptable as long as he called me first so I could have our son ready to go and let him know where we would be for him to come get him if I wasn't at the house. This was agreed to during the settlement conference. Now, he NEVER calls first, assuming I will be here just waiting and waiting for him to show.
My Solution: Call me so that not only will our son be ready to go for you, but it will be respectful of my time.
His Response: No.
My Counter-Response: Then I guess we have to go back to court to get the pickup times and possible pickup locations set in stone.

Problem 3: He has DEFINITE end times with our son. 6pm on Sundays and 10pm on Mon and Tue. He agreed to this in the settlement conference. I agreed to this in the settlement conference. To date, he has NEVER brought our son home at the end time, instead returning him 1-2 hours EARLIER than scheduled. This is a COMPLETE lack of respect for the time our son is entitled with his father, as well as a complete lack of respect for my personal time.
My Solution: Officially change the end-times to reflect the average time he's bringing our son back each time or call me first so that I can say if I will be home or where he can bring Aidan to if I'm not.
His Response: No (on both).
My Counter-Response: Then I guess we have to go back to court to get the end times adjusted, the amount of time before a pickup or drop off he can arrive early, and possible drop-off locations set in stone.

Problem 4: I am entitled to one phone call a day when my son is with his father per DR-610, the official child visitation document. I choose to exercise this at my son's bedtime so I can tell him goodnight. I asked the father to have our son call me before he goes to bed.
His Response: No.
My Counter-Response: I tried calling myself around 9pm, but he wouldn't answer the phone, then HE started calling ME around 8pm, WELL before my son's bedtime, to have him talk to me and have that constitute my one call a day.
My Counter-Counter-Response: You guessed, it, going back to court to even have this addressed. I should be able to choose the time I speak with my own son, not him. And our son NEEDS security and routine and what better routine than to say "Mommy always calls at 9" or "We always call Mommy just before bed?" ESPECIALLY on the nights where he might be upset and missing me.

Problem 5: Transportation. NEARLY EVERY FREAKING NON-RESIDENTIAL PARENT IN THE U.S. HAS TO PICK UP THEIR CHILD(REN) WHEN THEY HAVE VISITATION WITH THEM. But for some reason, he refuses to bring him home on the night I have school. His argument? "Our son ALWAYS goes to bed by 9 when he's with me." Whatever. Up until the freaking DAY I moved out, our son always went to bed when the ex could drag himself away from the computer to put our son to bed and this was ALWAYS between 10 and 11pm. Then he has the nerve to tell me to DROP MY COLLEGE COURSE because I shouldn't have scheduled a class on a night he has our son?

Please explain that one to me. I'm confused. So my class, which is from 6:30 to 10, interferes with his parenting time, which is from No Later Than 6pm to 10pm? And the college is CLOSER to the ex than my house, so dropping him off at 10 with me at the college is actually more convenient for him. I'm still tring to figure out how that interferes with HIS parenting time.

My Solution: If you refuse to keep your own child until 10, the time we AGREED on, drop him off with me at the college or with my sister at her house (still closer to him than my house).
His Response: No. If you want him on Tuesday nights, you come get him.
My Counter-Response: Wha?! Ok, back to court.

I am 99.9% certain that he's doing these things just to try and make my life difficult. Why else would he do them after agreeing to them? When he agreed, he had no idea I was starting college. I bet it irks the pants off of him that I am actually thriving after the divorce, but I don't really care. What I care about is preserving our son's mental well-being and my personal time.

There are a couple more things I'm addressing, like his impending move (he refuses to tell me where and refuses to supply me with a new address unless the court orders it), a possible move to Georgia and handling out-of-area visitation, and some other little things.

Two days. Two days and hopefully everything goes well and I can actually stopped being walked all over by him. He's good at finding loopholes in the court document, and I'm truly hoping I closed them all up. We'll find out.

Abortion is to this day still one of the touchiest subjects in social and political conversations. Is it surprising that it was the topic I decided to write a response paper about? Not if you know me well.

In my Women's Studies (WMS201) course at Miami University, the students are tasked with writing an essay in response to one (or more) of the readings we are assigned to do; we have five response papers due for the term. Closing the Barn Door is a response to various readings from Patricia Miller's collection of autobiographical essays called The Worst of Times and Margaret Sanger's, My Fight for Birth Control. This is my second submission to my professor, and it earned a 45 of 50 possible points (an 'A-') in return.

Take a look, and let's have a discussion--but remember, keep it civil. Freedom of speech is permitted on my blog, as long as it's constructive and respectful, even if you don't agree.

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“The woman had become pregnant and had taken various drugs and purgatives, as advised by her neighbors. Then, in desperation, she had used some instrument lent to her by a friend.” (Sanger, My Fight for Birth Control, p.51)

“Some had tears along the vaginal tract where they had used coat hangers to get up into the uterus and break things up—like rupture the amniotic sac.” (Miller, The Worst of Times, Coroner Fred, p.12)

“The knitting needle perforated mother’s uterus, and she developed peritonitis and then gangrene.” (Miller, The Worst of Times, Marilyn, p.41)

“The self-help methods I saw were douches with irritating solutions and ‘instruments’—a knitting needle, a straightened-out coat hanger, or literally any kind of implement that they could force up into the cervix.” (Miller, The Worst of Times, Dr. Francis, p.287)

“’At nineteen, this linoleum is the last thing I’m ever going to see, because I’m dying. I’m going to die because I was stupid. I got pregnant and then I went to a doctor with a dirty office.’” (Miller, The Worst of Times, Laura, p.298)

Each of these quotes are at once horrific and the kind of thing pro-abortionists might use to garner outrage and support for their cause. What I do not believe people consider when reading about the terrible things that happened to these women is that even though they happened pre-1973, before Roe v. Wade and the legalization of abortion, they also happened before the plethora of preventative birth control options that we currently have available to us today: abstinence is 100% effective; sterilization, Depo-Provera, IUDs, and birth control pills (taken properly) are greater than 99% effective; and condoms, diaphragms, and birth control pills (average usage) are approximately 90% effective. In addition, we have Mifeprex (formerly known as RU-486) and “the morning after pill” to assist when preventative birth control options fail, are forgotten, are used improperly, or are unable to be used (as in the case of rape).

With such a number of viable preventative options, as well as emergencies measures that can prevent a pregnancy before sperm have a chance to fertilize the egg and create life, it seems immediately clear to me that abortion, while once a necessary evil, is now outmoded and unnecessary. In addition, women of any social class have the ability to receive preventative birth control and education to supply them with the tools needed to make them responsible decisions with their lives and their bodies.

The continued legalization of abortions is effectively making the government and those that provide the abortion services enablers. An enabler, as defined by the Miriam-Webster dictionary, is “one who enables another to persist in self-destructive behavior by providing excuses or by making it possible to avoid the consequences of such behavior.”

If you rob a bank, you are not acting in a responsible manner and are held accountable for your actions, usually by going to jail. If you lie to your employer about taking a day off due to illness, then are caught at the local bar having a drink, you are not acting in a responsible manner and are held accountable for your actions, often by being fired. If you receive loans and credit cards, then fail to pay for them, you are not being responsible and are held accountable for your actions, remuneration received through the repossession of your property, wage garnishment, and a lowering of your credit rating to show to others that you are a risk.

If all of your actions have consequences, and acting responsibly is your duty as a productive citizen, how can abortion be seen as anything other than a way for women who refused act responsibly to escape the consequences of their actions? We are no longer living in an era when wives cannot say no to their husbands’ demands for sex. Aside from rape, every single person that engages in sexual activities has made that choice to do so; and every single person who does not use a form of preventative birth control has also made that choice to do so and must live with the consequences of their failure to be responsible and their desire for instant gratification.

In rape cases, when a woman may be unable to speak for herself due to injury, or unwilling due to shame, fear, or emotional trauma, making a drug such as “the morning after pill” or Mifeprex a standard item in every rape kit can eliminate the need for rape-related abortions. Is it a violation of human rights to give one of these drugs to every rape patient? Not exactly. When a patient is unable to speak for themselves whether due to unconsciousness or emotional trauma so severe that they are considered (temporarily) mentally incompetent to make decisions regarding their medical care, parents, spouses, or other relatives can make the determination for care in the patient’s stead and, barring the availability of those persons, the doctor attending her can make the decision.

The only reason I can possibly see abortion as being an option for any woman is if the continuing pregnancy puts the mother’s life at risk, but even then, there can be other options. Can the mother safely carry the child to the point of viability if put on strict bed rest or in-hospital care? If so, then continue the pregnancy. Will any pregnancies the mother has always put her life at risk? In that case, she should be strongly advised to have surgical sterilization. Is the pregnancy ectopic (within the Fallopian tubes)? If so, then the pregnancy can, and should, be terminated—until such a time as medical advances can relocated an embryo from the tubes to the uterus without harming the mother or child.

Abortion has outlived its usefulness and now it is time for women, and legislators, to start holding women responsible for their actions. It is now time for government officials in direct contact with impoverished women and schools in direct contact with our youth to provide education. It is time for parents to teach their children that their actions and desire for instant gratification can have consequences and to come down from any moral high ground or embarrassment or disgust to explain to their children that if they make the decision to have sex before adulthood or marriage, they need to make the decision to take preventative measures.

Abortion is not a solution, but a temporary “fix” for a deeper problem. Even if you do not agree with the thinking that life begins at conception making abortion, in essence, murder, it is difficult to refute the fact that abortion is definitely “closing the barn door after the horse got out” as well as being an option that has outlived its usefulness in a majority of cases.

Miriam Schneir's book, Feminism in Our Time: The Essential Writings, World War II to the Present (1994), was a collection of autobiographical, creative, government, and activist organization writings, with commentaries by her. This book also included a selection from Betty Friedan's book, The Feminine Mystique (1963).

The "feminine mystique" is a term coined by Friedan in her book. It was her description for an ideology that women could only achieve happiness through marriage and motherhood. She believed this ideology caused a widespread problem of identity for women, a "stunting or evasion of growth." (M. Schneir, Feminism in Our Time, p.49 as quoted from B. Friedan, The Feminine Mystique)

In my Women's Studies (WMS201) course at Miami University, the students are tasked with writing an essay in response to one (or more) of the readings we are assigned to do; we have five response papers due for the term. How World of Warcraft Saved Me From the Feminine Mystique is a response to The Feminine Mystique selection in Feminism in Our Time, my first submission to my professor, and it earned a 47 of 50 possible points (an 'A') in return.

Take a look, and then chime in with your own "two cents."

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The reading about Betty Friedan and her work, The Feminine Mystique, resounded with me in a way I never believed possible. At first, it merely seemed like a history lesson, something to be learned from, but not truly tangible, until I read the following:

The author saw that trying to conform to the image of the happy homemaker was causing women a great deal of pain. “The core of the problem for women today,” she wrote, “is … a problem of identity—a stunting or evasion of growth that is perpetuated by the feminine mystique.” (M. Schneir, Feminism in Our Time, p.49)

If you do not have a home to upkeep, or a husband or child to care for, it may be hard to understand what these women were going through; it may seem as it did to me, like so much history, not tangible and not a current issue. The truth is, it is a current issue, though perhaps no longer as epidemic as Friedan describes.

My induction into the feminine mystique was not propaganda by the government, nor something purposefully instilled in me as I grew, but rather something that germinated almost on its own. It was as if a seed of ivy had accidentally landed in the fertile soil of my mind. The slow, creeping tendrils gained a foothold; it grew, it spread, and it obscured the true identity of what lay beneath.

I was raised with my grandparents. Both worked outside of the home as did my grandmother's parents, whom we had constant contact with. I was never raised to focus on education as a goal, or work, or a family. I was left to make my own decisions as to my future, the only expectations of me being that whatever I decided to do, I succeeded, wherever life took me, I went with integrity, and whomever I met, I treated with respect.

I loved school and getting an education; I knew I wanted to attend college, but I also had my own hopes of one day having a husband. I did not desire a child; I never played house with a baby doll, nor did I ever see a baby and look forward to the day I could have one of my own. Even during my first marriage, when I willingly stopped my plans for higher education to be a wife and take care of my new husband and his infant daughter, never once had I thought, "This mommy gig is great! He and I need to have one together!” I did love my stepdaughter beyond belief though, and when that relationship ended, I believed I would feel a tug of need to have another child in my life again—but I didn’t.

A year after the divorce was final I met my second husband. I had been at a wonderful job for a short time and one of their benefits was tuition reimbursement. I was excited at the prospect of returning to school and I began short-term goals and daydreaming of the future. As the relationship got more serious, I again put my plans aside to instead look forward to the prospect of being a wife. He had no children, but whether it was the fabled biological clock or just my feeling of security with him, my previous lack of desire for children suddenly turned a full 180 degrees and became some fevered quest for a baby of my own.

After two In-Vitro Fertilization attempts, I was blessed with my son and never had I known such love! I knew I wanted to stay home with him and raise him, even while I was pregnant with him. I wanted to be there for all of his firsts; I didn't want his babysitter or day care provider or grandparents to experience them first, as had happened with the first husband’s daughter. I wanted to be present, to be loving, to be "the perfect mother." I wasn't raised to want a husband and child and house to care for; it simply happened, as if a biological switch had been turned on in me. I was firmly within the grasp of the feminine mystique.

Eventually, I started to feel that nameless depression that so many before me had felt, that angst that could neither be placed nor cured. I tried taking up knitting and scrap booking. I tried to return to my passions of photography and fiction writing. I tried to throw myself into any creative endeavor I could: drawing, graphic design, web page design…. Nothing worked and it seemed by the week I was getting more and more edgy. I also slept more, a perfect mirror to “housewife’s fatigue” as mentioned in the reading (M. Schneir, Feminism in Our Time, p.66 as quoted from B. Friedan, The Feminine Mystique).

While I was pregnant, my husband and I had started playing a new online role-playing game that had just been released, World of Warcraft. I had taken a long break from it during my pregnancy and my son’s first months, but as the depression closed in, I considered restarting my account and playing again to see if that could distract me from the anonymous dread I lived with. Surprisingly, it turned out to be the thing that made me realize my plight!

In World of Warcraft, you start a new character at level one and complete various quests to rise higher in levels and gain better gear that your character wears and uses, like armor and weapons. At the maximum level, you can join a raiding guild and take on in-game monsters called bosses for even better gear. These types of instances (the in-game dungeons where the bosses are found) were reserved for max-level characters who had a strong grasp of the game and had worked hard to prepare their characters to get into these types of encounters.

As I achieved better gear and became known as not only a competent player, but an excellent one, I found myself lost more and more in that game world. I felt good there. I felt like I mattered. I felt like I was accomplishing something. In addition, I had friends, I had admirers of my playing ability, and I had control of my online life.

In the real world? I was my son's hero, but no one else's. I had accomplished nothing for myself beyond birthing my amazing son. I had not advanced myself, I was in a controlling relationship, I was not known by anyone but my family and in-laws, and I was never called upon for assistance in creative efforts, of which my family all were aware I did well at. In the real world, I felt enslaved, inconsequential, unimportant, and invisible (except to my son). In World of Warcraft, I felt like a rock star. “The problem is always being the children’s mommy, or the minister’s wife and never being myself.” (M. Schneir, Feminism in Our Time, p.63 as quoted from B. Friedan, The Feminine Mystique)

When I finally realized what the problem was – that the online world was giving me fulfillment, recognition, and a sense of accomplishment while in my real life these things were sorely lacking - I started to try and regain my sense of self. After getting several piercings and dying blue and purple streaks in my hair, I started to feel more like “me,” like an individual, like the person I used to be when I had ambitions, creativity, and joy. I started to stand up for myself when my husband tried to take advantage of my forgiving nature and made purposeful "mistakes." He didn't like this person before him. He couldn't control her like a dog on a leash. He couldn't make every decision. He didn't understand I wanted my "equality" in marriage and he certainly didn't want me to have it. A strong believer in the Christian concept of wives being submissive to their husbands, this was one thing he could not handle; within six months of me beginning my reclamation of my sense of self and finally beginning to be happy again, he filed divorce papers.

Surprisingly, I was not devastated that I was losing my husband; in fact, I was overjoyed. I was free! Not free to date again, as that was quite the unwelcome prospect at that point in my life (and still is), but free to finally do something for myself. I was free to be myself, free to make my own decisions, free to raise my son the way I wanted - outside riding a bike, or playing, or camping instead of indoors staring at a computer screen or television all day and night, as his father preferred – and free to finally go back to school and get that achievement and fulfillment and sense of accomplishment that I so yearned for.

I still play World of Warcraft, but now that I'm free of the shackles of depression and uncertainty, it's not a daily all-consuming need as it once was, but rather a way to spend a couple of hours an evening, two or three days a week, with friends I've known for two years within the game, friends who have supported me through my WoW life, friends who have been there for me during and after the divorce in a real and tangible way. I don't need that fantasy world to find whole-spirit fulfillment any longer, because fulfillment is within my grasp and I am happier than I ever have been! I have my son who is the light of my life, I have my health, I have God, and I am in college. The future has never looked so bright.

Feminine mystique, indeed! That selection touched me in a way I never expected and made me seriously reflect on my path up until now. To know that women felt like that, feel like that, and that I am not the only one. Hopefully any women that feel like I did, like the housewives of the 50’s did, can find their own path to recognition and fulfillment and even experience the true freedom of spirit and joy I finally feel. World of Warcraft saved me and it saved me because it made me realize what was lacking in my own life. It gave a definition to the faceless pain that haunted me and showed me what I needed in order to be fulfilled in my own life.

The final line of the reading should be a rallying cry for all women wrapped in the chains of the feminine mystique: “We can no longer ignore that voice within women that says: ‘I want something more than my husband and my children and my home.’” (M. Schneir, Feminism in Our Time, p.67 as quoted from B. Friedan, The Feminine Mystique)

Once upon a time, I was an EMT. For those of you not in the know, an EMT is an Emergency Medical Technician. EMTs, along with EMT-P’s or Paramedics, are on the front lines of emergency medical care. It’s an EMT or EMT-P that answers that “I’ve fallen and can’t get up call.” It’s the EMT or EMT-P that you see pulling unfortunate victims out of a pile of tangled metal on the freeway. And it’s a life I wish I had never left.

When I was young, I never said “I want to be an EMT when I grow up.” I did say I wanted to be a veterinarian, or a fire fighter. As I got older, I realized that I could never be a vet. My business would go broke trying to save the animals past saving, or the beloved pets of those unable to pay, or my house would grow full to the rafters with the abandoned or abused pets that came into my care. You don’t give a crack addict crack — you don’t give an animal addict animals. Simple as that.

The idea then to be a fire fighter grew for a while in my mind, until I decided that while running into a smoky building might be an adrenaline rush, it wasn’t truly something I really wanted to do.

For a long time I floated from job to job, finding enjoyment in almost all of them, but never any true happiness. That was when I met Rick. Coming out of an abusive relationship, I had no desire to get back into another relationship quite so soon, but when a woman in a uniform approached me one day at the store I was a customer service rep in and said, “That guy over there wants to know if you’re married, and he’s had a crush on you for a year,” I about fell over in shock.

A year?! After three years of being hit and talked down to and generally made to feel like I was worthless, some guy actually thought I was nice enough and attractive enough to have been infatuated with me for a year?! To say I was flattered, and stunned, was an understatement.

Still, Mr. Crush, a handsome guy who was very tall, had a very deep voice, and a strong jaw that made you want to just nibble on it for hours, didn’t come to talk to me that night. I was confused, but still floating on a cloud when I left work.

A few days later I saw him and the girl again, along with a couple of other folks, all in the same uniform. I didn’t know why they wore the uniforms or what they did, but I wouldn’t have to wait long to find out. Finishing up my shift, I clocked out and left the store. Walking across a very dark parking lot, I got the distinct feeling I was being followed. Instead of turning around, I just made a beeline for my car. That was when I first heard his voice. “Hi there.”

Finally turning around, I found he was as attractive up close as he was from a distance, and his voice was just to die for. We talked for a few minutes and that’s when I found out he was an EMT. I had always been under the impression that firefighters were the ones in the ambulances, but was quickly educated on how that is not always true and the department he worked for had separate firefighter and EMT teams, though people could get certified to volunteer for both.

Our talk was cut short when his pager went off and a very loud voice informed him and his crew of a call they had to rush off to. With a promise to see me again soon, he was gone. As I watched the ambulance pull from the parking lot, I was certain of two things:

1. I was in a definite state of lust.
2. I was in love with the uniforms, lights, and sirens of the ambulance.

Our relationship started off wonderfully and as I asked more questions about being an EMT and was able to visit with and ride along once with the crew, Rick finally convinced me to take the training course. I had made quite a few EMT, firefighter, and police friends while dating him, and the heads of this volunteer department were excited that I was willing, and even eager, to give it a shot. In addition, the department would pay for it and sponsor me.

In my first class, I knew emergency medicine was for me.

I graduated from the class with flying colors and started on my volunteer career as an EMT. It was the first time in my life I had ever truly felt fulfilled in anything I had ever done. I was a natural at it: compassionate, yet not so caught up in my patients that I took it home with me; adept at improvising; a quick study at learning new techniques, and truly driven in my job to be the best.

I knew then this was the life I wanted, a career in emergency medicine. This was seventeen years ago, when I was nineteen. Wanting so badly to make a living in the medical field, I left my customer service job and went to work as a nurse aide at a nursing home. The job wasn’t overly terrible, as a majority of the residents were sweet as pie, but it wasn’t emergency work–it was changing sheets, giving baths, serving dinners, bringing water and generally being an underpaid, overworked go-fer.

Every day I looked through the newspapers for something I could do with my EMT certification. Finally I spotted an ad for a medical transport company. This was a great job and I really enjoyed it, but it was more straightforward transport of patients from their homes or nursing facilities to hospitals and doctors’ offices for medical appointments. I thoroughly enjoyed it, though, since most of our transports were regulars and we got to know them on a more personal level.

After being with the company for a little over a year, a position opened up on their 7pm to 7am shift. The shift consisted of two EMTs, two paramedics, and the dispatcher. I jumped at the chance to take this position! Not only would it serve me well, as I was (and still am) a dyed-in-the-wool night owl, but the overnight shift dealt mainly with emergencies for the nursing homes we contracted with. This meant real, honest emergency care.

I got a lot of experience in that job. Many many times of performing CPR, assisting the paramedics, losing patients, saving them, lots of broken bones, plenty of respiratory issues, and the list goes on. I truly felt I had found my calling, but inside of me, something felt like it was missing.

After a few months on the night shift, I got a new partner, Brian. Brian was probably the most gorgeous blond-haired, blue-eyed guy a girl could have ever laid eyes on. He only had eyes for one of the girls on the swing shift, though, and I was dating someone at the time, so he and I just became friends, great friends. I still miss him to this day.

Well Brian was unlike my previous partner, he liked to stay awake on slow nights and actually go out and do stuff–like hang around the ER of the Trauma III hospital in the city we worked in. Can you say heaven? Okay, maybe that’s a really bad analogy for an ER, but still, I felt like I was home.

Oh sure, I had been in ERs many many times between my transports and emergencies with the ambulance company, and time with the volunteer squad, but we were always in, giving the report and patient to the staff, cleaning our equipment, then out again. It wasn’t until my partnership with Brian that I really got to spend time in an ER and see how things were done. It wasn’t until then that I knew that my life had one of two directions to go for true fulfillment for me–either as a paramedic, or as an ER nurse.

Unfortunately, time and circumstance have a way of drawing some people away from their dreams, and that’s what happened to me.

– Stay tuned for part II –