I know there isn't much time left for me to air out my always righteous indignations for all of you to emphatically and empirically agree with here.  But I am one of those who will go down with the ship. Because I believe in it. Because nothing else fits. Because I can't settle for shallow when what I crave is depth. (And I have more of an idea of why I need so much depth here, now. I'm discovering a lot through counseling, both about myself and about the man I married. But I don't wish to air my dirty laundry, only my righteous indignation.) Right on.

You know it's a bad state of affairs when the government prevents her law-abiding citizens from abiding the law (by making it so difficult to comply), and yet will still hold them to that standard. Yes, it's a universally known peeve of most that driver's license offices and employees are notoriously unhelpful or even rude. To me, this North Carolina office took the cake. Let me explain why. In order for us to swap our Texas licenses for North Carolina licenses, here is what we needed (all listed, not a combination of some - ALL):

1. My Texas driver's license

2. My original birth certificate

3. My social security card

4. Proof of residency

5. Proof of insurance

and the one that took the cake for me, just one step WAY too far:

6. Proof of middle name

WHAT THE FRANKENSTEIN is "proof of middle name?" OK, let's back up here. I started getting effing annoyed at all the requirements anyway, but number 6? Proof of middle name? I want to know what the purpose of that is and what they consider "proof" if it isn't any of the other means they already required. Let's take it another step, who does this rule make life more difficult for? Women and Immigrants. Let's explain why.

Women often change their name when they get married. Men don't do this. Often, the middle name is dropped or added on to and the last name changed.

Immigrants. Other cultures don't always (or often) give middle names. It's kind of an American culture thing. Or Westernized culture thing, at least.

So what if one doesn't HAVE a middle name at all? What happens then? And why does it matter if the citizen trying to get a DRIVER'S license can't prove their middle name status IF they have their social security card and birth certificate and an official photo id? What are we trying to prevent or authorize at this point?

My question is, what is the point of this requirement, period? How do I know it's required? The rude dude at the desk told me so, peon.

Another thing that annoys me is the general fact that states require all of the information IN ADDITION TO the driver's license from the previous state. Do you know how many times I've had to provide these documents at this point in my life? Seriously, about every 2 years for the last 8. At what point is it going to be good enough to stand? North Carolina says Texas must not have verified my identity - they need my documents, too. Texas said Florida must not have verified my identity, they needed them, too. And so on. WHILE they require my "unverified" driver's license, as defined by their lack of acceptance of said proof of identity, in order to help verify my identity. Do you see the contradiction here? Either it's valid proof of identity or it isn't.

That isn't even to address the REAL ID Act or PASS ID which some states do participate in.

I guess it really just got my goat that North Carolina has the gall to ask me for proof of my middle name. On behalf of women who might change their name upon marriage everywhere, and on behalf of the peoples of other cultures who might not be able to participate period - I'm offended. What are we trying to do?

My favorite book when I was a little girl was Misty of Chincoteague. I'm pretty sure I read every book in the series, over and over again. I loved these books but mostly, I loved the horses. I already have a special connection to the water, you already know that. The Atlantic particularly speaks to me, relaxes me, just generally makes me feel joy. I've never known why, who am I to question it too closely? Better to just go with it and enjoy the connection that I feel has been given to me.

When we lived in Jacksonville, Florida, Josh was out with his crew off the coast of Cumberland Island. They saw wild horses there. When he told me about it, my heart leapt. I've always, always, wanted to see wild horses like that. To be so close? It excited me! I thought that my little girl fantasies were going to come true, because he promised me he would take me back. Someday.

Years passed. That day never came. We moved away (to Texas). The opportunity was lost, and with a sigh, I put my dreams on hold.

4 more years passed, the years of spiritual and physical wasteland. The years in Texas. But we pulled through, and now? It's a whole different world here in coastal North Carolina.

This morning, I woke up late after having slept in (oh blessed sleep when you have kids). Josh told me that we were "going somewhere" today. It was a surprise. Yes, it certainly was a surprise - this has never happened in our entire relationship. So I got up, showered, got dressed, and in the truck we hopped for a destination unknown. At least, it was unknown to me.

We drove for about an hour and a half, to a city I'd never been to. And then we, all four of us (the kids, Josh, and I) boarded a small boat. This was pre-planned.

We were taken to a barrier island where wild horses roam free.

They dropped us off and would return about three hours later to ferry us back to the mainland.

We hardly knew where to begin, but we just started walking. I sort of took the lead, because I became a woman possessed. I needed this. I needed to find these horses. My soul needed it. I knew it so deeply that almost nothing else mattered. So I followed where my instinct led me.

The children walked behind me, and Josh behind them. I walked along what I believed with all my heart were horse trails in the tall beach grass. Narrow. Just paths where the grass had been trodden on like a finger dragging a line through wet sand. I don't know how I thought I would know, I've never met a horse in my life - that was a part of the dream: to meet and discover horses, but not just any horse, a horse in the wild. Not just because they were horses but because they were free.

I know we were on the right path. I know we were. But the paths became more rustic and natural than the kids were ok walking though, and I was in flip flops myself - when I'd gotten dressed, I hadn't known what we'd be doing or where we would be going. The sun began beating down on us. We were far enough from the coast that the breeze no longer blew. It was time to regroup. We were on top of a dune, so had good perspective on where we were on the island. Josh called it, and we decided to walk back to the ocean. We'd been told the horses were deep in hiding today, no one had reported seeing any at all. It was disappointing, but damn if we weren't hot. And because the kids were with us, I knew I couldn't just persist in my personal journey to find my wild horses. Not today. We gave up and walked back to the shores.

The ocean was rough on that side of the island. I walked knee-deep in the waves along the shoreline as the kids and Josh walked on the sand. Having thoroughly accepted that it wasn't meant to be, I had decided to just enjoy this moment anyway. It was a beautiful beach, and the water felt amazing. After about 30 minutes of walking along the shoreline, Josh quietly said my name. "Sarah. I see one. Over this dune."

When we quietly walked over the dune, we saw that it wasn't just one. There were 12 of them. No one else found any, but we accidentally came upon twelve. It was meant to be, fated. What else?

We saw them at a little bit of a distance. I had to get closer, it was necessary. I walked slowly, the wind beginning to dry the hem of my dress which had been soaked in the ocean. The kids came with me to a certain point, but I didn't want them to come as close as I wanted to get, because I knew there was an inherent risk involved. A risk they shouldn't take or wouldn't know how to react to anyway, should any craziness happen.

In the middle was the youngest of the horses. To me, she behaved in a very bizarre way. She just stood there in that spot, not moving, staring, for what seemed like ever. Really, it was probably 20 minutes. She finally shook herself out of her trance, whatever it was, and walked on. I worried about her.

One of the first things I noticed, and it saddened me deeply, was that they are all branded and numbered. My cognitive self wants to reason that there must be some preservation cause for this. But I hate it, and don't know why it's still practiced. Call me whatever you want, but when I got my tattoo, I volunteered for it and sat in the chair of my own volition. No one had to rope me in, or whatever other means they had to do in order to burn these horses. I did not like it, and my heart went out to these magnificent creatures who were just minding their business when someone decided that wild and free meant numbered and charted.

How was I so close? I walked to within about 10-15 feet. And stood still. We, these horses and I, occupied the same space on this earth, on this beach. They did not mind me. They noticed me, not doubt. Some walked closer, most walked right beside me. I was, for a time, surrounded by them.

Maybe I'm crazy. But I felt that they accepted me. I don't know anything about horses, but my instincts and my inner voice listened to them. One of the males walked so close to me I could have touched him without even outstretching my hand all the way. But I did not. I restrained myself, although I desired very much to touch him. Because though I was accepted, I did not feel they had given me permission to feel them. 

Josh and the kids walked a little bit away from me and the small group I was submersed in (there were 4, they aren't all in the picture). They walked over and saw this beautiful mare, who later stood and joined her group as they moved away from their grazing.:

While they were gone, I made friends with a special girl. She and I sort of danced around each other as she ate. We spent a long time together. I watched how she shuffled the sand around the grass and pulled the wetter roots out to eat them. With my hands, I emulated her action and put a pile of wet-rooted grass a few feet in front of her that I'd pulled. It took a few minutes, but she slowly sniffed it out and she ate it. I asked her if I could take her picture. This is the video I took, then. *video note: When I panned out a little to see the other horses, I walked away from her because having turned away, I didn't know if she would walk upon me. I didn't want her to approach me without me knowing it. We were equally wary and comfortable with each other.

Shortly after this, it was time to head back to the other side of the island to be ferried back to the mainland. We'd need to hurry to make it before they left. I whispered goodbye.

I don't think it was really goodbye, though. More like, see you later, friend.

And so it was, a childhood dream was fulfilled. There are no accidents.

~*~ Happy birthday to me. I'm 33. ~*~

While talking with Josh about it this morning, we tried to find something special about this number, this year. Because 33? Isn't so special. It's doubles. I guess that's cool. It has that going for it.

Oh well, it is what it is. I like that I was born July 13th, 1980. It's my perfect number.

To those who say there is an expectation of pain, whether good or bad, when you have sex:

You don't understand what real sex is. You, male, may understand humping. You, male, may understand many physical responses. But no, you don't understand a woman and HER sex. If you think there is an element of pain, it's because you didn't wait until she was ready for you. You just forged ahead like a bat out of hell (or rather into heaven) and had your way. Eventually she, out of HER love for YOU, probably adjusted without too much crying, and woo-hoo, there was a party in her tummy. So yummy, so yummy yummy.

But that initial pain was your fault and was unnecessary.

Because if you loved her the way she loved you, you would have been gentle with her. You wouldn't have forced your way in when she wasn't there yet. You would have gently waited, easing her, teasing her, and pleasing her until she was actually ready. She shouldn't have HAD to adjust to your foreign occupation, like a militarized warzone.

This is particularly true for any woman with a history of sexual abuse. Who has been taught that sex hurts. Women like me. I was a virgin when I was raped. Women who were molested also fall into this category. The category of women who must learn that sex feels good. Who have something to overcome before that's possible. Who have a memory that sex=pain.

So to those out there who say that sex has an expectation of pain, whether good or bad? I say there is no such thing as good pain when it comes to sex. It wouldn't then be described as "pain." Another word would be used, what a lucky thing that as humans we have so many words. Don't go around giving the expectation of painful sex as normal to any woman, particularly if you know she has a history of abuse. Your words are nothing but fodder for the corner of her mind that would poison her - his corner, the abuser's corner.

Sex should be love. Love should be gentle and kind. It doesn't just forge ahead, unmindful.

I will preface this by saying that while it's possible by the simple virtue of living in the same house that the kids have heard the grown ups arguing (for lack of a better word, and no it does not involve actual fighting and yelling - well 99% of the time), we do not discuss things like our relationship or whatever is going on behind the scenes in front of them. At all. We wait until they are in bed behind closed doors, or now that I think of it, we have discussed a couple of issues in the car when we thought they were watching their dvd (or lacked the other knowledge to grasp what we were discussing). Either way, all of this has caught me completely off guard.

You see, Ava has a strong imagination, I've said that before. Really strong imagination. Like, she sometimes can't even tell the difference between what she has imagined and what is real. Example, she was completely pissed off at me for allowing her to watch a Twilight movie because she had a nightmare about it. Problem. I never allowed her to watch one. First of all, I am against Twilight as a True Blood fan (and I don't think vampires and "true" eternal love is a subject for high school teenagers - so the concept is failed to begin with for me). I've never seen them myself, much less shown them to her. But she was legit pissed at me for having shown her this movie. Which never happened. Her imagination is a little bit out of control. I wish she were a little better at writing so she could have an outlet for her imagination and could in that way keep it wrapped up. But she, having just completed 1st grade, doesn't quite possess that skill yet.

It doesn't matter that Josh and I have never discussed divorce, she has placed it in her mind. "Mommy, if you and daddy ever decide to break up, will you tell me first? That way, I can call the love doctor. He can help." Yeah, tears welled when she said that.

Last night, Josh went to the store for something random. He was going to take the kids with him. I was going to have a few moments to myself for the first time in I honestly don't even know how long. He left while I was in the shower. I got out, and thought I was alone. I felt so much unexpected JOY. I had time alone!! OMG. And then I heard it. Ava's voice downstairs. She didn't go, she chose not to. Why? Good question. I believe she has decided she has to keep an eye on me.

Because while he was gone, he called me. At the end of the conversation, we said "I love you," like we normally do. She heard and immediately inquired, "who was on the phone? Who did you just say 'I love you' to?" Really? Smiling, I said, "Who do you think it was, crazy girl?" She crossed her arms and said, "I. Don't. Know." Ok then. "It was my boyfriend, Ava." She replied, "Daddy isn't your boyfriend, he's your husband. So, you have a boyfriend? Does daddy know?" Wow. I told her it was, of course, daddy on the phone.

Over dinner, she said, "Soooo, dad. When you were at the store, did you call mom?" She freaking VERIFIED.

I have a little spy in the house. I don't like it.

Little kids have a never-ending supply of knock knock jokes. Every once in a while, they actually strike gold and are rewarded with real laughter. When that happens, look forward to hearing that same joke for the next week. Over and over again. Repeatedly. In a row. Forever. This is an example of a joke that Isaiah made earlier this week, that he has re-told infinite times since (and it's still funny, fortunately for all of us). Excuse my voice, I'm dealing with some congestion and headache and whatever from sleeping extremely stupidly last night (yeah, still hurting Riis).

Wokka wokka, kid.

Pretty early on, when we lived in Texas, Josh found a collection of very old books in our house. I took them and ever so gently dusted them off the best I could, given their age, and put them inside much more carefully and with respect to their history. The love that must have been shared with these stories that they still existed in our home! I recently handled them again, giving them a new home here in North Carolina. I want to share a little of one of them, probably my favorite of the group.

Rudyard Kipling's Just So Stories. The only year marks I can find inside are copyrights 1902 and 1907. My assumption is that the book was written in 1902, but the edition is 1907. 1907 is also the year that Kipling was awarded the Nobel. I like that.

The pictures in here are part of what makes this my favorite. They are so beautiful, I cannot describe my feelings for them, they are just images that evoke deep emotion and connection and I treasure this book. I took a few inadequate pictures. One of them is of what is probably my favorite illustration in the book.

Wow

I swear to you, I kept waiting for the punchline...

Josh's grandparents are visiting us (and his parents and siblings arrive tomorrow as well). We went to dinner at Outback. All of the sudden, a group of servers came over to our table with a bowl of ice cream. They shouted, "we hear someone has a birthday today!!" And began singing their birthday song, clapping and making the scene that they do.

It was for me.

WHAT!!!

My birthday isn't until the 13th, mates. So here I was, completely dumbfounded, red-faced, embarrassed, with a bowl of ice cream in front of me and a restaurant singing happy birthday.

So I did what any sane person would do. I clapped along and looked at Josh, as though it were HIS birthday, not mine.

Cuz I'm sneaky like that.

What happened? Josh's grandmother told them it was my birthday because they won't be here for my actual day. Oy!!!

... (or a Coastie) today! If you do, you might see fireworks.

At least, that's what he told me 8 years ago. It was true, right??? Wait...