So, this is the first pregnancy where I have not been in constant panic-mode. Don't get me wrong, I probably would be, if I didn't have "I am Gracie, hear me roar" well, roaring, at me most of the time. Its a nice change, I will be the first to admit, but in a way its a little weird. I think about this baby, and I love this baby, but he (or she) is not my biggest focus 24/7. Probably a good thing for all involved.
However, since this might be my last pregnancy (according to Parke, there is no "might" about it...but I mean never say never, right?)- I decided I would try to be like those cool, together moms who do weekly updates during their pregnancy. Since this is me we are talking about here, these posts will probably only last a couple of weeks...but I will try.
So, without further ado, here is my 15 week update....
-According to my weekly pregnancy email, the baby is currently the size of an apple. This always gets me wondering, are they talking about big old red delicious apples, or those little tiny sour green things? Because if I can walk around with a big old apple in my stomach and not feel it...I mean, that's kind of an odd thought, isn't it?
- Which brings me to- movement. Not yet, I don't think. I mean there have been a couple of times where I thought I felt a twinge or two, but nothing definite yet. I felt Rip at 17 weeks and Gracie closer to 16, so I am trying to resist the urge to poke at the poor creature until then.
- My lack of poking may also have to do with the fact that I am STILL nauseous. Not all of the time, and not NEARLY as bad as it was in the beginning...but I think this baby already realizes he/she will be competing with a...vivacious...older sibling and wants to make his presence know. On the plus side, my skin and hair are better than they have been in previous pregnancies, so I look green but well-maintained.
- Craving-wise I am all salt, salt, salt. Chips and pickles are a particular favorite at the moment. Absolutely no carbonated drinks. Meals in which I overindulge are met with less than favorable consequences, of which I will spare you the details.
-Note that has not slowed down my weight gain. After little to no gain in my first trimester, the last three weeks have been overachievers. This will probably be my last post on weight gain, as we can all just agree from here on out its pretty much a given.
- Due to aforementioned weight gain and nausea, maternity pants are pretty much a must right now. I can still get away with non-maternity tops, but I am more than ready to "pop" and prove there is actually a baby in here.
- But who is it? Not sure yet! We go on February 25th to find out for the gender. I am still very much leaning towards boy, but would not be totally surprised to be wrong this time around.
I will try to add a picture next time around. Today, I don't like my outfit enough to have it permanently documented. Don't worry, little one, its not that your mother is vain...its just that looking bad never helps anything (or so I've been told).
Until next week! Littlest one, you sure are loved.
Monday, February 17, 2014
Friday, February 14, 2014
Finding the Beautiful
A couple of mamas I know, "heart mamas" (aka some of the most hardcore, awesome mamas) who have "heart babies" (aka pretty much some of the bravest, coolest kids in the world) posted this blog post on their Facebook pages this week. It struck such a cord, I had to repost.
I have some really vivid memories of different times in my past where life seemed so beautiful it almost hurt. One when I was dancing with my baby sister when she was about a year old. Another when I was sitting in the sunroom of my family home, looking out at a bright blue sky. One when I was driving around Clemson University with my best friends, singing at the top of our lungs. Another when I was on my honeymoon, staring up at the stars and thankful for the beginning of a happy life.
And then I had children, and life got so beautiful it almost breaks me sometimes.
My prayer, every single day, is that no more babies have to hurt. Ever. And even when I know that prayer is not likely to come true on this earth, I pray it anyway.
Having lost a baby, I felt a connection to that Heart Mama who wrote the blog post. She is finding the beautiful.
I once read a post by a mother who lost a child, and she said that it hurt her for people to say they appreciated their children more because of her loss. I understand that. I never want someone to feel sorry for us because of Rip, we are very blessed people and don't expect pity. But I also know that I do appreciate my children more because of our loss.
I get up with Gracie at 2am sometimes and just lie there and thank God for the smell of her shampoo. I kiss her cheeks so many times a day I am surprised she doesn't have an imprint of my lips tattooed there.
And I think that must be what all mothers who have had sick babies, or experience loss, must do. We find the beautiful, and maybe even more of it, because of what we face.
Today is Valentine's Day. February is heart awareness month. Please take the time today to say a prayer for all the babies who need them. I, for one, am going to Gracie's first Valentine's party this afternoon. If you see me with tears in my eyes while 20 children run around on a candy high, just ignore me. Finding so much beauty has turned me into a big old crybaby.
I have some really vivid memories of different times in my past where life seemed so beautiful it almost hurt. One when I was dancing with my baby sister when she was about a year old. Another when I was sitting in the sunroom of my family home, looking out at a bright blue sky. One when I was driving around Clemson University with my best friends, singing at the top of our lungs. Another when I was on my honeymoon, staring up at the stars and thankful for the beginning of a happy life.
And then I had children, and life got so beautiful it almost breaks me sometimes.
My prayer, every single day, is that no more babies have to hurt. Ever. And even when I know that prayer is not likely to come true on this earth, I pray it anyway.
Having lost a baby, I felt a connection to that Heart Mama who wrote the blog post. She is finding the beautiful.
I once read a post by a mother who lost a child, and she said that it hurt her for people to say they appreciated their children more because of her loss. I understand that. I never want someone to feel sorry for us because of Rip, we are very blessed people and don't expect pity. But I also know that I do appreciate my children more because of our loss.
I get up with Gracie at 2am sometimes and just lie there and thank God for the smell of her shampoo. I kiss her cheeks so many times a day I am surprised she doesn't have an imprint of my lips tattooed there.
And I think that must be what all mothers who have had sick babies, or experience loss, must do. We find the beautiful, and maybe even more of it, because of what we face.
Today is Valentine's Day. February is heart awareness month. Please take the time today to say a prayer for all the babies who need them. I, for one, am going to Gracie's first Valentine's party this afternoon. If you see me with tears in my eyes while 20 children run around on a candy high, just ignore me. Finding so much beauty has turned me into a big old crybaby.
Saturday, February 8, 2014
State of Grace
I know that a lot of time and discussion is given to the "Terrible Two's", but I've got to say that, so far, I'm really enjoying this stage. Now, that is certainly not to say that Gracie does not have her moments...she does, she truly does...but even those moments I often find secretly hilarious. Here are a glimpses into life with our two-year-old...
Gracie, though generally a sweet girl, has recently developed a penchant for whacking people (mainly me) in the face, particularly when my face has the misfortune to get too close to hers. And, I mean, I get it...its not that I haven't occasionally felt the urge to belt somebody whose big mug gets in my personal space...but it a practice that is generally frowned upon and sometimes it really hurts. Therefore, Parke and I have tried to implement age-appropriate redirections and punishments. I think maybe we need to re-think our tactics...
Gracie's self-imposed punishment, after yet another "tap" to her mother's face: "Hud" (Hug) "Tiss" (Kiss) "Soddy"( Sorry) "I go to time out"...which she promptly does.
One thing that always kind of cracks me up about kids, at least my kid, is how they perk up like dogs at the sight or sound of ANYTHING you are attempting to eat by yourself. Gracie can hear the opening of a yogurt lid from the opposite side of the house. No sooner has my mouth touched the spoon beforeI hear her, eyes sparkling and already pulling up a chair, "Whazzat?"
The other day I finally thought I found something she would not be interested in, a salad with a bunch of "stuff" in it. Unfortunately she finished her peanut butter toast early and climbed into my lap for a closer look. Right now she is big on "yikes" and "not yikes", so I had a bad feeling when she reached her grubby little hand right in and grabbed a cherry tomato.
"I YIKE it," she declared.
I told her I did not think she would.
"NO, I YIKE IT!"
Big bite into cherry tomato, spraying juice into both of our faces and a surprising distance into the kitchen before spitting the offending item back into my salad.
"I NOT yike dat."
Gracie loves to sing. Unfortunately, neither Parke nor I can carry a tune to save our lives, so it is no surprise that her serenades, while beautiful to us, are not really fit for public consumption. This does not give her a moments pause. Her favorite of all time is "Jesus Loves Me"- cute, right? Maybe not so much if you are minding your own business shopping at TJ Maxx and she is on her 12th round of
"JESUS LUBS ME DISS I KNOWWWW, FOR THE BIB-BUL TELLS ME SO". I know, lady shooting me dirty looks, but I'm not gonna be the mom who tells her kid to stop singing about Jesus, okay?
Speaking of Jesus, we have have finally made it back to attending church regularly. Albeit not often for the full sermon, even though several times before entering Gracie cautions Parke and me to "be tw-iet in shursh", the quiet of a two year old only last so long. Last week was a particularly rough Sunday due to the unfortunate soul sitting in front of us. Gracie, to put it mildly, is obsessed with "boo-boo's" and other ailments. Sorry on you if you have the poor judgement to point out any small scratch or cut you may have in her presence. You will be discussing said cut for the next hour and a half, with multiple viewings. Therefore, Parke and I were horrified to see the man in front of us had a "bump" on the back of his neck. Like, could have used Proactiv bump. Sure enough, it wasn't ten minutes before Gracie zeroed in..."UH-OH MAMA- BOO BOO!!!" While we tried to divert her attention, the girl was determined to have a closer look and I am sure the poor man felt toddler cheerio breath on his neck before we finally dragged her out. She is still talking about it a week later.
These are just some of Gracie's latest and greatest. She keeps us laughing, and on our toes, and I wouldn't have it any other way. The state of grace is always changing and I would not change that for the world.
Gracie, though generally a sweet girl, has recently developed a penchant for whacking people (mainly me) in the face, particularly when my face has the misfortune to get too close to hers. And, I mean, I get it...its not that I haven't occasionally felt the urge to belt somebody whose big mug gets in my personal space...but it a practice that is generally frowned upon and sometimes it really hurts. Therefore, Parke and I have tried to implement age-appropriate redirections and punishments. I think maybe we need to re-think our tactics...
Gracie's self-imposed punishment, after yet another "tap" to her mother's face: "Hud" (Hug) "Tiss" (Kiss) "Soddy"( Sorry) "I go to time out"...which she promptly does.
One thing that always kind of cracks me up about kids, at least my kid, is how they perk up like dogs at the sight or sound of ANYTHING you are attempting to eat by yourself. Gracie can hear the opening of a yogurt lid from the opposite side of the house. No sooner has my mouth touched the spoon beforeI hear her, eyes sparkling and already pulling up a chair, "Whazzat?"
The other day I finally thought I found something she would not be interested in, a salad with a bunch of "stuff" in it. Unfortunately she finished her peanut butter toast early and climbed into my lap for a closer look. Right now she is big on "yikes" and "not yikes", so I had a bad feeling when she reached her grubby little hand right in and grabbed a cherry tomato.
"I YIKE it," she declared.
I told her I did not think she would.
"NO, I YIKE IT!"
Big bite into cherry tomato, spraying juice into both of our faces and a surprising distance into the kitchen before spitting the offending item back into my salad.
"I NOT yike dat."
Gracie loves to sing. Unfortunately, neither Parke nor I can carry a tune to save our lives, so it is no surprise that her serenades, while beautiful to us, are not really fit for public consumption. This does not give her a moments pause. Her favorite of all time is "Jesus Loves Me"- cute, right? Maybe not so much if you are minding your own business shopping at TJ Maxx and she is on her 12th round of
"JESUS LUBS ME DISS I KNOWWWW, FOR THE BIB-BUL TELLS ME SO". I know, lady shooting me dirty looks, but I'm not gonna be the mom who tells her kid to stop singing about Jesus, okay?
Speaking of Jesus, we have have finally made it back to attending church regularly. Albeit not often for the full sermon, even though several times before entering Gracie cautions Parke and me to "be tw-iet in shursh", the quiet of a two year old only last so long. Last week was a particularly rough Sunday due to the unfortunate soul sitting in front of us. Gracie, to put it mildly, is obsessed with "boo-boo's" and other ailments. Sorry on you if you have the poor judgement to point out any small scratch or cut you may have in her presence. You will be discussing said cut for the next hour and a half, with multiple viewings. Therefore, Parke and I were horrified to see the man in front of us had a "bump" on the back of his neck. Like, could have used Proactiv bump. Sure enough, it wasn't ten minutes before Gracie zeroed in..."UH-OH MAMA- BOO BOO!!!" While we tried to divert her attention, the girl was determined to have a closer look and I am sure the poor man felt toddler cheerio breath on his neck before we finally dragged her out. She is still talking about it a week later.
These are just some of Gracie's latest and greatest. She keeps us laughing, and on our toes, and I wouldn't have it any other way. The state of grace is always changing and I would not change that for the world.
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Getting what you need
Thank y'all so much for the sweet words and congratulations! They made the pregnancy feel more real, and hitting the second trimester has helped as well. Now I have that "special pregnant lady" vibe going, whereas before I had that "really nauseous, please don't eat onions within a mile of me" vibe.
Which leads me to the question every pregnant woman asks at some point- who is this little person swimming around inside of me? I know some women prefer to be surprised. I admire those women greatly. I really, really don't like to be surprised (ironic, given the name of this blog, I know).
With both Rip and Gracie, I had such strong feelings about whether they were male or female. I was right with both...this newest addition has me guessing.
Long before I got pregnant, I dreamed of having a daughter. I have a very good relationship with my own mother, and some of my best memories are of special things and days we have had together. I wanted that bond with my own girl one day.
And then I got pregnant with Rip. And man, I changed my tune quickly. Boy mom seemed suddenly the best idea EVER.
When we lost Rip, and I was waiting to get pregnant again, that was where my mind stayed...boy, boy, boy.
Then I got pregnant with Gracie. Turns out, I got the baby girl I'd been waiting for my whole life.
With this baby, my mind says "he". My first instinct was boy, and I have to say that is what I am still leaning towards...but my body says she (please see afore-mentioned "really nauseous, no onions etc"). I was never sick with Rip, very much so with Gracie.
So here is what I know-
If we have a little boy, he will be the best thing that ever happened to us.
If we have a little girl, she will be the best thing that ever happened to us.
Because sometimes you really do get what you need.
Which leads me to the question every pregnant woman asks at some point- who is this little person swimming around inside of me? I know some women prefer to be surprised. I admire those women greatly. I really, really don't like to be surprised (ironic, given the name of this blog, I know).
With both Rip and Gracie, I had such strong feelings about whether they were male or female. I was right with both...this newest addition has me guessing.
Long before I got pregnant, I dreamed of having a daughter. I have a very good relationship with my own mother, and some of my best memories are of special things and days we have had together. I wanted that bond with my own girl one day.
And then I got pregnant with Rip. And man, I changed my tune quickly. Boy mom seemed suddenly the best idea EVER.
When we lost Rip, and I was waiting to get pregnant again, that was where my mind stayed...boy, boy, boy.
Then I got pregnant with Gracie. Turns out, I got the baby girl I'd been waiting for my whole life.
With this baby, my mind says "he". My first instinct was boy, and I have to say that is what I am still leaning towards...but my body says she (please see afore-mentioned "really nauseous, no onions etc"). I was never sick with Rip, very much so with Gracie.
So here is what I know-
If we have a little boy, he will be the best thing that ever happened to us.
If we have a little girl, she will be the best thing that ever happened to us.
Because sometimes you really do get what you need.
Friday, January 31, 2014
Happy Girl
I've said time and again on this blog that I have always been a "happy girl" aka, an optimist. And I've said how hard it was to be that girl after Rip died.
I know the expression, "hope for the best, expect the worst and you'll never be disappointed". It makes sense, kind of. But I just don't operate that way. I'm more of the "think of the absolute best (probably never gonna happen) scenario and day dream about it until it doesn't happen". And yeah, maybe I get disappointed but usually not for long...by then I'm already on to the next great thing that's going to happen any minute.
It was really hard believing that after Rip died and when I got pregnant with Gracie. Really hard. Even with my perfect, beautiful baby girl it was hard. I wanted to believe the best again soooo badly. But it was hard.
This year, for our anniversary, Parke and I went back to Tortola-our home away from home. The last time we were there was when our wonderful, thoughtful friends sent us after we lost Rip. It was amazing how healing it was to go back. How different we are today than we were then. Parke was like a little kid.
Before we left, I'd made up my mind I would be pregnant by the time I got back. This is the kind of thing I do, only to make up my mind again the next month. Nonetheless, I bought a pregnancy test and left it for our return.
We got in the car and the song "He Called Me Baby" came on the radio. The same song I heard when I knew I was pregnant with Rip. You can imagine what was going through my head.
Unfortunately, by the time we reached paradise, it became quite clear that I was not pregnant. Like, the exact thing you DON'T want happening on your romantic beach vacation had happened. To make matters worse, I was completely unprepared for this unwanted visitor (optimist remember) and all the resort had to offer resembled what I was given to wear by the hospital after the birth of my children. Awesome.
Still, we had a wonderful vacation. Really, really good. And the whole time that same song played in my head, and I thought "Maybe??". And I had to smile, because the Old Anne was back. Here in this beautiful place, I felt like I'd found that Happy Girl again. The one who still believes even when EVERYTHING point to the contrary- like basically wearing a diaper in her bathing suit contrary. I'd missed her, a lot.
The last day or our vacation Parke came and grabbed me to show me this:
So, of course I took the darn test when we got home (I'd paid for it, right? Also, patience is sooooo not my thing).
We are expecting our third child in early August.
And of course I have that voice in my head..."but Anne, what if you write this and then something happens again?!!" So what? The joy I have over the baby is not something I am willing to sacrifice to fear. Not this time.
I saw him (of course I don't know yet, just a feeling) yesterday at 12.5 weeks. I am a Happy Girl.
I know the expression, "hope for the best, expect the worst and you'll never be disappointed". It makes sense, kind of. But I just don't operate that way. I'm more of the "think of the absolute best (probably never gonna happen) scenario and day dream about it until it doesn't happen". And yeah, maybe I get disappointed but usually not for long...by then I'm already on to the next great thing that's going to happen any minute.
It was really hard believing that after Rip died and when I got pregnant with Gracie. Really hard. Even with my perfect, beautiful baby girl it was hard. I wanted to believe the best again soooo badly. But it was hard.
This year, for our anniversary, Parke and I went back to Tortola-our home away from home. The last time we were there was when our wonderful, thoughtful friends sent us after we lost Rip. It was amazing how healing it was to go back. How different we are today than we were then. Parke was like a little kid.
Before we left, I'd made up my mind I would be pregnant by the time I got back. This is the kind of thing I do, only to make up my mind again the next month. Nonetheless, I bought a pregnancy test and left it for our return.
We got in the car and the song "He Called Me Baby" came on the radio. The same song I heard when I knew I was pregnant with Rip. You can imagine what was going through my head.
Unfortunately, by the time we reached paradise, it became quite clear that I was not pregnant. Like, the exact thing you DON'T want happening on your romantic beach vacation had happened. To make matters worse, I was completely unprepared for this unwanted visitor (optimist remember) and all the resort had to offer resembled what I was given to wear by the hospital after the birth of my children. Awesome.
Still, we had a wonderful vacation. Really, really good. And the whole time that same song played in my head, and I thought "Maybe??". And I had to smile, because the Old Anne was back. Here in this beautiful place, I felt like I'd found that Happy Girl again. The one who still believes even when EVERYTHING point to the contrary- like basically wearing a diaper in her bathing suit contrary. I'd missed her, a lot.
The last day or our vacation Parke came and grabbed me to show me this:
So, of course I took the darn test when we got home (I'd paid for it, right? Also, patience is sooooo not my thing).
We are expecting our third child in early August.
And of course I have that voice in my head..."but Anne, what if you write this and then something happens again?!!" So what? The joy I have over the baby is not something I am willing to sacrifice to fear. Not this time.
I saw him (of course I don't know yet, just a feeling) yesterday at 12.5 weeks. I am a Happy Girl.
Friday, January 17, 2014
Peace, Love, and Happiness
I haven't written on this blog in almost two months...which I think is the longest time I've ever gone without saying SOMETHING. I've thought about writing a million somethings, but those thoughts usually occur somewhere around 3 am when I am in crazy "see what I can dig up to worry about" mode.
After Rip died, I felt compelled to write. That's not a strong enough word...it was almost like if I didn't write what was in my head that very minute whatever it was would become too big for me to deal with. Writing was a lifeline.
Writing also became a part of me, something I will always be thankful for. I still write, in fact I'm writing for a couple of local publications on the side now, and I truly enjoy it. But that need to put everything on paper seems to have faded.
I guess my life seems pretty normal right now. Almost everything I do is stuff that every other mom I know is doing. There isn't a reason to get it out here because nobody understands it out there.
Don't get me wrong, I'm still different. I still feel my heart sink when somebody says "wait til you have two!" It will always catch me off guard when someone asks how many children I have. I will always have days when I cry because I miss my baby boy.
But most days, I feel peaceful. Well, busy and peaceful. At peace, I guess. At peace with exactly the kind of mother I am, and exactly the kind of family we are. A broken thing that is slowly being put back together, with the cracks still visible to anyone close enough to us who cares to look.
Most of the time I feel love. And I feel loved...by God, by my husband, by my friends, by my drama queen of a two year old. That love doesn't look a darn thing like I thought it would four years ago, but it is fought-for love...and that's the best kind.
I am happy. I never in a million years thought I would be. Could be. Its kind of a miracle, really.
Now, this is not to say every day is peace, love, and happiness. Peace is generally not having your two year old smack your face and make a big production over saying sorry. Love is not always having your husband fuss over the new scratches on your car for thirty minutes (its not like I do this stuff on purpose). Happiness is rarely found while cleaning out a crock pot a solid three weeks after making a roast. No, that's all called yesterday.
That's also called normal. Sometimes normal can be even better than peace, love, and happiness.
After Rip died, I felt compelled to write. That's not a strong enough word...it was almost like if I didn't write what was in my head that very minute whatever it was would become too big for me to deal with. Writing was a lifeline.
Writing also became a part of me, something I will always be thankful for. I still write, in fact I'm writing for a couple of local publications on the side now, and I truly enjoy it. But that need to put everything on paper seems to have faded.
I guess my life seems pretty normal right now. Almost everything I do is stuff that every other mom I know is doing. There isn't a reason to get it out here because nobody understands it out there.
Don't get me wrong, I'm still different. I still feel my heart sink when somebody says "wait til you have two!" It will always catch me off guard when someone asks how many children I have. I will always have days when I cry because I miss my baby boy.
But most days, I feel peaceful. Well, busy and peaceful. At peace, I guess. At peace with exactly the kind of mother I am, and exactly the kind of family we are. A broken thing that is slowly being put back together, with the cracks still visible to anyone close enough to us who cares to look.
Most of the time I feel love. And I feel loved...by God, by my husband, by my friends, by my drama queen of a two year old. That love doesn't look a darn thing like I thought it would four years ago, but it is fought-for love...and that's the best kind.
I am happy. I never in a million years thought I would be. Could be. Its kind of a miracle, really.
Now, this is not to say every day is peace, love, and happiness. Peace is generally not having your two year old smack your face and make a big production over saying sorry. Love is not always having your husband fuss over the new scratches on your car for thirty minutes (its not like I do this stuff on purpose). Happiness is rarely found while cleaning out a crock pot a solid three weeks after making a roast. No, that's all called yesterday.
That's also called normal. Sometimes normal can be even better than peace, love, and happiness.
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Why do we need to know?
I am sitting on a tropical island right now. I am writing this blog post because what I just heard on the television behind me, I couldn't keep inside.
They are having a round table discussion about whether or not the Newtown CT 911 tapes should be played publicly, and most of these people are agreeing that it is our right as Americans to hear them.
I want to ask each of these people if they have ever lost a child.
I did, at one week old I lost my son to meningitis. I was with him every moment until he died. And still I cannot walk into a hospital, eat red and white mints, or wash my hands without thinking of him, remembering the day he died.
These parents, the ones of the babies who were killed that day, they have it worse. The worst fear of every parent in America, in the world.
So why- why, why, why- is it our right to make this harder for them? One year later they are trying so hard. They are trying so so hard to heal. To have Christmas for their other children, to make the memories of the children they lost mean something. Why, on top of everything else, should they live in fear of turning on their TVs and hearing something they already hear in their worst nightmares? How can we possibly say we have the right to know?
I wrote this quickly and angrily, and I'll probably regret doing so. Surely there are people who need to hear these tapes, who can learn something from them...but for the rest of us... It's just not about "us".
They are having a round table discussion about whether or not the Newtown CT 911 tapes should be played publicly, and most of these people are agreeing that it is our right as Americans to hear them.
I want to ask each of these people if they have ever lost a child.
I did, at one week old I lost my son to meningitis. I was with him every moment until he died. And still I cannot walk into a hospital, eat red and white mints, or wash my hands without thinking of him, remembering the day he died.
These parents, the ones of the babies who were killed that day, they have it worse. The worst fear of every parent in America, in the world.
So why- why, why, why- is it our right to make this harder for them? One year later they are trying so hard. They are trying so so hard to heal. To have Christmas for their other children, to make the memories of the children they lost mean something. Why, on top of everything else, should they live in fear of turning on their TVs and hearing something they already hear in their worst nightmares? How can we possibly say we have the right to know?
I wrote this quickly and angrily, and I'll probably regret doing so. Surely there are people who need to hear these tapes, who can learn something from them...but for the rest of us... It's just not about "us".
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