“Oh, what beautiful children you have! Do tell me their names.”

Go on, boys, tell the nice lady your names.

“I’m Hold On.”

“And, my name is Gimme a Second.”

Oh, these boys of mine, always joking around. This is Luca. And, this little guy here is my youngest, Leo.

* * *

Okay, okay, so this didn’t actually happen.

Yet.

But, I’m sure it’s just a matter of time.

I spend more days than I should phoning it in, and putting the unimportant before my most important.

Give me just a second, while I reply to this tweet.

Hold still for a minute, honey, so I can capture this moment instead of participate in it…you know, for my blog.

I tell myself they’re still too young to know better, but that’s a lie. Just because they’re not able to articulate it doesn’t mean they don’t feel it.

Somehow, though, they always seem to forgive me, but I’m trying to shape up before they get any older.

* * *

Sweet boys of mine,

I’m still learning everyday how to be your mother.

I try hard to be the best, but I still mess up more than you deserve.

I’m not perfect, and I’ll never pretend to be. But, I’ll always apologize to you when I’ve done wrong. Even tiny-sized children deserve adult-sized respect.

You’re not perfect, either, and I won’t pretend you are. In fact, I want you to know just how imperfect you are. Because, we all are, and isn’t it lovely?

I cherish that I’m getting to know you at the same time you’re getting to know yourself. And, that you’re getting to know me at the same time I’m still getting to know myself.

The complicated journey of self-discovery has just started for you. And, there’s no final destination, just little pit-stops along the way.

I wish I could tell you it’s easy, this growing up stuff, but it’s not. It’s incredibly hard. Never let anyone discount that or minimize it.

You’ll try on a million different hats until you find the one that fits, which will probably end up being the very first one you tried on.

You’ll question who you are often and, when you don’t like the answer, you’ll try to be someone different.

And, that’s okay, we all do it.

But, me? I’ll never question who you are. I’ll only love you, all of you, even the parts you hate. And, when you’re pretending to be someone different, I’ll be here to guard those parts and keep them safe. Because, trust me, one day you’ll want them back.

As your mother, I’m looking forward to so many milestones.

I can picture them now…

I’ll sit on the sidelines and cheer loudly for my baseball all-star. Or, sit in the front row, and silently pull for my ballerina.

I’ll watch in awe at how fearlessly you take on life, attacking it head-on. Or, the way you cautiously approach it, preferring to get your toes wet before diving in.

I’ll talk loud on how brilliantly academic you are, and how effortlessly you earn perfect marks in every subject. Or, the way you put in your all, and study day and night to raise that D to a C.

I’ll beam with pride at how outgoing and confident you are when you walk into a room, and how much you relish the spotlight. Or, at how incredibly shy you are, comforted most by shadows and shining your brightest when no one’s looking.

I’ll stand proudly by your side the day you find God. Or, the day you find you don’t believe in him.

I’ll leap for joy when you find your wife. Or, your husband. Or, the day you decide you don’t want either.

I’ll cry tears of happiness when you finally make me a grandmother to a bouncing baby girl. Or, stray cat. Or, a Chia Pet.

I’ll embarrass you often, bragging to everyone about my handsome, wealthy, heart surgeon of a son. Or, my broke, starving, artist of a man.  Or, my hardworking, honest custodian.

For, you see, it’s simple.

The only thing I expect of you is to choose what makes you happy, independent of what’s considered the norm or what makes others happy.

It’s not your job to live for anyone, especially not for me.

But, it is my job to live for you.

And, because I take this job very seriously, I’ll do things that you won’t understand sometimes.

Like pushing you to take chances on things that terrify you.

Or, stepping back and letting you fall.

I won’t try to fix everything for you. It’s not my place. But, I will always be close by to pick you up and dust you off.

I expect you to be kind, to defend those that are weak, and try to make the world a little better than you found it, any chance you get.

I’ll take you out of your comfort zone, and expose you to things and people that are different from you. I refuse to let you miss out on diversity and all the beauty it brings.

I’ll tell you incessantly to be grateful for all you that have, then remind you that none of it makes you better than those who have-not.

I’ll push you to be gracious and generous. And, not for praise or the expectation of something in return, only because it’s the right thing to do.

You’ll see all of this as nagging, and you’ll roll your eyes and stop your feet and slam your door in my face.

Sometimes you won’t like me, and you’ll tell me so. You may even tell me how much you hate me.

But, don’t worry, it’s a rite of passage, and I’ve already forgiven you. There’s nothing you can say or do to make me love you less.

Life is unpredictable, and ever-changing. With the good comes the bad, and with the happy, the sad. But, there’s one thing that will always remain constant.

I’ll always be here to hold your hand.

Even when you’re trying to let go.

Yesterday was one of those days that seemed like it would never end. I had a ton of things to do and planned it all very poorly, which ended up interfering with Leo’s afternoon nap.

As in, he didn’t get one.

And, if you’ve ever gone to Target with both kids in tow, you know it can get pretty messy. Especially, if one of them is hungry or tired.

I was making my way through the store, when Leo ripped off both his shoes, throwing them down the aisle with the skill of an all-star pitcher.

As I ran to scoop them up, Luca began shouting, “MOMMY, Leo won’t stop touching my penis! Leo won’t stop touching my penis! STOP TOUCHING MY BODY, LEO. This is MY penis.”

On one hand, I was proud that he knew to say “THIS IS MY PENIS,” because of, you know, stranger danger. But, on the other hand, having him repeatedly yell penis in the middle of Target was a little startling to…everyone.

During this ordeal, Leo kept hitting the button on his new toy car, prompting the song feature.

Won’t you take me to…a funky town….over and over and over again.

Luca was angry and defiant when I told him the town was funky.

“Mommy, it’s CRAZY town, not FUNKY.”

Crazy town, indeed.

I was smack dab in the middle of that moment.

The moment when you’re sweating, and positive that all eyes are on you and your shitty parenting. It’s easy to forget that, most of the time, people are too busy stressing out about their lives to notice ours.

Just as I was about to lose my shit, an older woman approached me.

What the hell is she going to say to me? That my boys are out of control? That they’re causing a ruckus? That I suck as a mom? I know all this. Move along, lady.

Instead, she gently laid her hand on my shoulder and, with the warmest look in her eyes, said, “Honey, I just want to tell you that you’re doing a marvelous job as their mommy. You got this.”

It had to have been at least three decades since she had stood in my stressed-out shoes, but she could see in my eyes that I was in major need of some encouragement.

Those words took mere seconds out of her day, but they changed mine completely.

You know what? I do have this.

That simple shift in my attitude carried over to my boys, and left us all much more relaxed.

I laughed, thanked her, and we went our separate ways.

But, I wish I’d said more. I wish I had told her that her support, her kind eyes and warm smile, had made such a difference in my day.

In a city of six million people, the odds that I’ll see her again are tiny, so all I can do is pass it on.

Whether it be a look of solidarity, or a quick, “Oh, mama, I’ve been there. It’s so hard, sometimes. But, you’re doing awesome,” makes no difference.

Sometimes, all we need is support from our stranger-friends, from those who’ve been there, to turn our day around.

A few aisles over, Leo chunked his shoes, again, straight at another shopper.

“Uh-oh!” said the innocent victim.

This time, instead of getting all sweaty and panicky, I laughed out loud, and told him, “Being the mom of two boys isn’t easy, but it’s definitely never boring.”

Then, I walked away, the three of us singing as loud as we could.

Won’t you take me to, a CRAZY town…

Being an afternoon child is a big responsibility, huh?

That’s what Luca told me yesterday morning, as he emptied an entire can of hairspray onto his head…all in one spot.

Don’t worry, Mommy, I closed my eyes when I sprayed it.

* * *

It’s been almost five years since I had him.

I closed my eyes for what seemed like a split second and, when I opened them, I was sending my sweet boy off to school for his first day as a primary student.

That was over a year ago.

* * *

I closed my eyes again and, this time, when I opened them, I was sending him off to school, lunchbox in tow, as a big-shot all day child.

This day was a special one.

In his words, he’s no longer one of the little kids.

Staying at school for three more hours each day may not seem like that big of a deal, in the grand scheme of things, but it symbolizes just how fast he’s growing up.

When did my baby become old enough to be away from me for seven whole hours?

This child, the one I’m probably way too protective of, is the most extraordinary soul I have ever met.

A part of me wants to put him in a bubble, and save him from the real world. A world full of hate, where one can no longer feel safe crossing the finish line.

Thankfully, a bigger part of me understands that this would do him more harm than good. It’s important he have a world all his own – one he doesn’t have to share with me, his father, two dogs, one cat, a fish, and four very horny frogs.

And, although I know that loosening my grip of his tiny hand is the right thing to do, it doesn’t make it any less bittersweet.

I’m especially protective of Luca, because I see so much of myself in him. Often enough to make me wonder if I’m merely projecting my feelings and fears onto him – something that wouldn’t be fair at all.

But, then he’ll say something I understand all too well and any doubts I had, that he’s not cut from the same cloth as me, are extinguished.

His tender nature is exemplified again and again in the most ordinary of moments.

Like, during a recent road-trip.

A Texas-sized truck flew passed us on the highway. Going at least 80 mph, it had a dog in it’s bed that was holding on for dear life. He didn’t look to be enjoying the wild ride at all. I cringed, but I bit my tongue, not saying aloud what I was thinking.

Hey asshole, how would YOU like to be thrown in the back of a truck that’s speeding dangerously down a congested highway on a holiday weekend?

Instead, I went with, “Oh, look at that cute doggie!”

Luca fell silent for the next few miles. Sitting in his car-seat, he wore a cute shark shirt and his trademark thinking face.

“Mommy, is that dog in the truck going to be okay? I think he’s probably scared.”

Of course, he said everything I’d been thinking.

Of course he did.

He always does.

This kid walks around all day long with his feelers sticking straight out, for anyone and everything to grab hold of.

His constant worry about others, especially those that are weak and powerless, makes my heart ache. He’s not even five, and way too little to worry about such big things. He’s got his whole life to make himself sick with the sadness that surrounds us.

Despite my worry, I wouldn’t change a thing. Because, I love this about him, just slightly more than I hate it for him.

But, I know how heavy it can be to walk around with an extra sensitivity chip – it is such a beautiful burden.

My friend Katya would say he has a bad case of The Lastimas. Which, basically means he doesn’t just feel for people and animals, he feels with them.

I know from experience how exhausting this can be.

Most people feel sad when they see a lifeless animal in the middle of the street. But, they’re able to move passed it fairly quickly; Their reactions, offering no more than the situation warrants.

And, then there’s me.

When I see a dog-turned-roadkill it can ruin the better part of my day, if not all of it, popping up again and again and again in my head….

Did it suffer?

Was it scared?

Did it lay there all by itself, confused and dying, until the end finally came?

I am the Queen of Emotional Overreaction.

Not all that long ago, I told you guys a story about a slug. And, while my tone was humorous, my concern for that damn snug wasn’t exaggerated in the least.

As my friends sat around laughing, I couldn’t stop wondering if the headless little blob was in pain?

(Google has differing opinions on slug-pain.)

I’m not saying this to come off as some kind of Mother Teresa. Rather, I’m acknowledging the fact that my reactions to things teeter dangerously between normal, everyday sensitivity and straight-up insanity.

When I was younger, I’d even catch myself ascribing feelings to inanimate objects.

It’s funny, though.

When I see all these things in myself, I call them crazy. Yet, when I see them in Luca, I call them beautiful.

In him, I see a beautiful caring soul who feels way too much for his tiny heart to hold.

On the flip side, would I rather have a son that steps on a slug, rather than a son that worries about a stepped-on slug?

Not a chance.

Nevertheless, it still pains me to know that his kind of empathy comes with a price. One that is beautifully painful and oh-so-heavy.

I lose sleep at night, praying I’ve passed on only my best parts to him.

Please don’t let him hate himself like I did.

Please don’t let him worry so much about what others think.

Please let him be confident.

* * *

All weekend, I worried that he wasn’t ready to be a full-day student.

Is it too soon?

Am I pushing him?

But, when I picked him up yesterday from cloud nine it was evident, by the huge smile on his face, that my worry was for not.

That’s when I realized something big.

Although, Luca undoubtedly has many parts of me, he is not me.

He’s his own person, traveling down his own path, and making his own unique mark in the world.

And, he’s so much braver than I’ve ever been, in all of my 35 years.

(The above photo has been altered to respect the privacy of a non-blogger’s offspring.)

I’m so proud of you, my sweet afternoon child. Keep being the sensitive soul you are. Because, no matter how hard it may be at times, it’s a beautiful way to live.

I will not be closing my eyes anymore.

* * *

My thoughts, love, and deepest condolences are with Boston, and all those affected by yesterday’s tragedy.

Parenting is hard.

We have to deal with things like seeing our babies sick, projectile vomit, and a four year old mini-Picasso painting their bright-blue masterpieces on our clean, white garages (ahem, Luca.)

Everyone tells me it gets harder as your kids get older. But, most of the time, I’m knee-deep in kid-shit and way too busy to worry about what’s to come.

Yes. I’m well aware that their questions will become more difficult with each birthday they celebrate, but I’m barely hanging on as it is, you guys. Taking things one day at a time is all I can handle.

For now, I make sure to answer my boys open and honestly, giving them as much as their little brains can process.

But, I always try my best to tell it like it is.

My husband once asked me why I introduced words like penis and vagina into Luca’s vocabulary.

Umm, because that’s what they’re called? What should I tell him to call it…a cock?

Kids deserve our honesty, even when it’s uncomfortable for us.

I mean, do I dread the day when the Mommy, what does pizza look like when you throw it up turns into the Mommy, how are babies made?

A little.

Although, I’m pretty confident, because I totally have a fail-proof plan as to how I’ll approach these kinds of things.

(Plans? Ha. Children laugh in the face of plans.)

But, I’m certainly in no rush to tackle these doozies.

And, luckily, I haven’t had to go there yet, because my boys are still at an age where I can control their environment.

Just yesterday, I thought about how relieved I was that Luca wasn’t around when I was unwillingly exposed to pigeon pornography.

Oh, but not so fast with that big sigh of relief, Allison.

Hours after my little pigeon peep-show, the animal kingdom decided it wasn’t quite done fucking with me.

As I was getting Luca ready for bed I heard him scream.

“MOMMY! Come here now. WHAT are these guys doing? WHY is my boy frog sitting on top of my girl frog like that?”

Of course, our frogs had decided to do it froggy-style right there in plain sight for all the world to see. OF COURSE THEY HAD.

Oh…well…honey…that’s…umm…how they make their babies do you want a giant cookie before bed oh look there’s a bird.

“They hug each other, mommy?”

Oh. Yes…Ha…YES! They totally have to hug each other to make babies.

And, although the explanation was one of pure innocence and the crisis seemed averted,  I could see that somewhere, deep in his four year old head, he knew there was way more to the story than that.

Please, animal kingdom, I beg of you.

Get a room.

Because, it turns out, I am so not ready for this shit.

I am the most hormonal person on Earth.

Just ask my husband.

(But, for his safety, not while I’m PMSing.)

My hormones dictate everything.

My reaction to things.

My coping skills.

My dietary choices.

My energy.

My parenting.

My intelligence.

My confidence.

My wife skills. I mean, skillz.

EVERYTHING.

Depending on where I am in my cycle, I either love myself, feel meh about myself, or loathe myself.

One week, I’ll feel like the most capable, funny, and skillful writer ever. I feel like my words are meaningful, and add something positive to the world.

But, once PMS kicks in it’s the polar opposite. Rather than funny, witty, or skillful, I feel completely incapable, like my words might actually make someone dumber just by reading them.

Wait. What’s that? You need a visual?

That’s funny, because I happen to have some.

This is an average month for me, depicting how hormones affect every facet of my life. The red indicates the most dangerous time of the month for myself, and those in my immediate vicinity.

For example, let’s take a look at the same scenario – my husband eating my last burrito without asking – at two different times of the month.

Days 6-20, when I’m feeling my best…

Days 25-31, in the throes of PMS…

And, while my husband has learned to identify the danger signs, and has become quite adept at navigating the minefield known as me, others have not.

So, a word to the wise – if you have even the slightest suspicion that I might be under the influence of hormones, please tread lightly.

And, whatever you do, do not eat my fucking burrito.

graphs – graphjam.com
comics – ragebuilder.com

In a Kim Jong world….

There will be no Christmas music shenanigans while decorating the Christmas tree…

In a Kim Jong World…

He will demand that you serve him watermelon….

“Without any seeds. Not red. And not black. And make sure it doesn’t drip on my shirt or my chin.”

In a Kim Jong World…

It’s here.

The time of year my kids discover that their mommy is but a mere mortal.

We all know I’m not the craftiest of women.

 —–> Exhibit A <—–

But, that doesn’t stop me from trying.

So, the other day I picked up this gingerbread house kit from Trader Joe’s.

The first red flag that this wasn’t gonna end well was the fact that I was required to actually make the icing.

What kind of kit is that!?

But, I had the egg and vinegar it called for, so it seemed easy enough.

Unless you’re me.

Beat the egg white until it hardens.

I beat that shit for like ten minutes and still had no idea if it was hard enough (hehe).

I mixed the unable-to-get-it-up egg white into the sugar, but it still seemed too dry.

“I’ll add another egg white!”  she thought.

Spoiler: There’s a reason the recipe calls for only one egg.

My icing was way too runny, so I added approximately twenty drops too many of vinegar.

Because who doesn’t want a gingerbread house that smells like pickles?

“Fuck it,” I thought, “let’s build this bitch.”

Here’s some math for y’all.

Pickle-scented-runny-icing + attempting to construct a house made of stale cookies = FAIL.

I accidentally beheaded the daddy, so we laid him down to make snow-angels.

I promised Luca that we’d try again the next day so I bought another kit, only this time with pre-made icing.

It turned out much, much better.

But, man, the icicles pictured on the box are some BULLSHIT.

And, Luca put boobs on the window for some reason.

Men.

But, at least it didn’t taste like pickles.

Later that evening Luca told me, “Mommy, this house is so beautiful. But, the first house we made is disgusting.”

Ouch.

In my mind, this is what my coffee table looks like…

But, this is what my coffee table really looks like (and, yes, that is a fake piece of dog poo, the running joke around these parts lately)…

In my mind, this is what my bedroom looks like…

But, this is what my bedroom really looks like.

A doggy co-sleeper pulled up along side our bed at night, and a chair so Luca won’t go tumbling off the bed at three in the morning (he can’t be in the middle because then he pushes my husband off the bed).

With two boys, two dogs, and a cat, my house will never look like a magazine.

Slowly, though, I’ve come to embrace this messy, sticky, gooey chaos.

Because, while our bed may be full of dog hair and kid-goop, it’s also full of happiness and love.

And, I’ll take that over picture-perfect any day.

Yesterday was one of those days when you’re hypersensitive to everything around you…when you feel things, rather than simply observe them.

After dropping my son off at school, my youngest and I took our usual detour back home, via the Starbucks drive-thru. While I was waiting at the window for my one year old’s home-cooked breakfast, I noticed a homeless women sitting on the curb, camped out next to her things. Everything she owned was shoved tight into a bag, as worn and tattered as she was. It was evident that she was the junkie everyone admonishes you for handing a buck to.

Nevertheless, you’ll still find me stopped at a red light, frantically searching the bottom of my purse for loose change; for coins covered in gum and dirt. But sometimes when I drive away, the bitterness washes over me. Because I know, or at least I think I do, why they are where they are and exactly where my money’s headed. But, I quickly temper this with the thought, “Oh, well, it’s nothing for me to give a buck, and what if I really am helping to put food in their mouth? If there’s even a one percent chance of that, then it’s all worth it.”

Besides, if I had to sleep under a bridge, I’d want to numb myself, too.

But, yesterday was different. The bitterness wasn’t there. The only feelings that washed over me were incredible sadness and gratitude.

Let me back up a bit.

The day before this encounter, I spied this photo on my Facebook feed.

It got me thinking about this, more so than most messages of the like.

“…then you are morally obliged to help life’s underdogs.”

The word underdogs punched me in the gut. Hard.

A few days earlier, I’d come across a letter I’d written to my firstborn son, shortly after his arrival four years ago.

In it, I said to him, “I hope you root for the underdog.”

I hope that more than anything. That is the kind of person I’m desperately trying to raise him to be. Not a successful doctor or lawyer, not a scientist who will cure cancer one day, but a kind and compassionate soul.

It resonated with me for another reason as well.

As a society, we often pick and choose who needs our help, and who it’s acceptable to turn our backs on. We hand out charity to those we deem worthy; junkies and deadbeats need not apply.

But, who are we to decide who is worthy and who is not?

The Golden Rule is not, after all, “Do Unto Others as You Would Have Them Do Unto You…Unless...”

It’s impossible, in the one minute it takes the light to change back to green, to look at the man holding up the cardboard sign and chalk him up, figure him out, or categorize him as worthy or unworthy of our help. For, we haven’t a clue what got him there.

No, we have no idea what led someone to inhale that first hit of crack or to their insatiable craving for alcohol. All of which they may have traded for a home.

Or the perfect storm someone may have been hit with, causing them to lose the things they worked so hard for their entire life.

Or the mental illness.

It could be anything.

How easy it can be to judge and speculate from the comfort and safety of our air-conditioned cars. I know this because I’m guilty of it.

But, rather than looking down on them, shouldn’t we instead stop for a moment and ask ourselves, “What if that were someone I loved, and I wasn’t able to help them? Wouldn’t I want others to?”

The person you see on the street corner with the dark, hollowed eyes, is someone’s family, and someone’s friend. Although we certainly shouldn’t be legally obligated to help them, are we not at least morally obliged to do so? I’m speaking about this not as a religious person, and not in terms of any God, but simply in terms of being human.

Just as the barista was about to hand me my order, I cocked my head, sweetened my voice, and said to her, “I know there’s, like, the longest line of fiending caffeine addicts ever behind me, but you think I could get one more cup of coffee and some sort of pastry?”

Then, I pulled my car up to the strung-out woman on the curb and said, “I have an extra cup of coffee and some food if you want it.”

She jumped up so quickly that I feared she would break her frail, malnourished body in half.

“Oh, thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” she shouted, jumping up and down.

Then, she peeked in my backseat to find my one-year-old smiling at her. Smiling back, with tears rolling down her face, she mumbled to me, “I’ve always wanted to be a mom, but I could never take care of a baby. Just look at me.”

“I’m so sorry,” I told her. “But, please know that your shoes could undoubtedly be on my feet one day. And, I’d totally hope for a cup of coffee and some pumpkin bread if you could swing it.”

And, really, that’s the bottom line.

I would hope that my fellow human beings would help me in my time of need, graciously, and without an ounce of judgement or condemnation.

Because at the end of the day, why the hell else are we here?

*This post was also published here.

I promised myself that this time around, that during this election season, I would stay quiet.

I wouldn’t post political statuses.

I wouldn’t recommend any political articles on Facebook.

Of course, I would allow myself to “like” them. Because “liking” something on Facebook is the ultimate form of passive-aggressiveness…

Oh, I’m sorry that you saw that I liked the fact that this guy said you were an idiot. I didn’t realize that was going to be on my timeline. I certainly wasn’t intentionally throwing my opinion in your face. Even if I am right.

Unfortunately, I’ve not gone as politically incognito as I’d planned.

What’s that saying?

Never discuss religion or politics?

Admittedly, and this is not breaking news, I have a hard time keeping my mouth shut when it comes to all of the things. Especially, the things I believe strongly in, the things that really matter to me.

But, I do often regret posting links to political articles. Not because I don’t agree with them, but because I don’t want to be lumped in with the drinking the Kool-Aid crowd.

A crowd that I absolutely think exists…on both sides.

You know, the sheep.

But, me? I think and decide for myself.

I don’t watch MSNBC or Fox News, because I know what their aim is: to make money off of manipulating and igniting people’s feelings and vulnerabilities.

In my opinion, these networks have found their niche and are nothing more than blatant propaganda.

Now, if we could jump in my super-cool time machine and visit the eight year old me, you’d find I haven’t changed much at all.

I’m still an overly-sensitive, overly-emotional, bleeding heart, who wants to rescue everything and everyone.

The only difference now, is that I’m not as afraid of voicing my beliefs. I care much less about offending someone. And, I say fuck…a lot.

Yes, if one had to predict back then which political party eight year old Allison would be affiliated with as an adult, the left would have won in a landslide.

I’ve heard it all before.

The bleeding heart liberal comments, meant to be taken as a negative putdown and terrible criticism. They always make me chuckle a little…someone slamming me for wanting to do good by others, human or animal.

How dare I care!

But, rather than trying to eloquently explain how I arrived here, and what’s formed my opinions, I childishly fight back with insults of my own.

Selfish. Bigot. Unpatriotic. Nationalists. Bible-thumpers.

Never taking the time to ask others what has led to their beliefs, but desperately wanting them to know what’s led mine.

I was raised in a very conservative household. Most of my eldest family members are die-hard Republicans, of the Fox News variety.

And, I had, what some would say, a privileged upbringing; never wanting for much.

I’m the opposite of a minority.

I am white, straight, and financially comfortable.

I am the poster child for Republicans.

And, yet, I’m a bleeding heart liberal…the black-sheep of the family.

Much of this is surely due to those innate personality traits that I have no control over.

I cry when I see a slug in pain. I cry about most everything. I internalize the pain of other beings. I always have. Am I too sensitive and completely irrational? Sometimes. But, I wouldn’t trade it. It has allowed me to connect with people and animals in a way, and on a level, that I don’t think I could have otherwise.

I cherish that.

However, there are certainly external experiences that have solidified my liberal leanings, and made them stronger. As is the case for everyone, right or left.

For one, there are people I love, who have been unable to survive on their own. But, luckily, they’ve been given everything, lifted up, and supported in their time of need by people who love them.

So, I often wonder what would happen if she didn’t have family to support her? What if she didn’t have anyone to help her with food, and shelter, and medical expenses?

Would other people help her? Would there be a safety net in place for her?

Or, would she be homeless, starving on a street corner, or under a bridge somewhere?

If she didn’t have us, would I want her living in a society where it’s every man for himself?

The thought of someone I love not being lent a helping hand in their time of need? The thought of them being told to fend for themselves? The thought of them being forgotten and swept aside?

It terrifies me.

Because, the cold hard truth is that, the only reason she is alive today is because she does have a family who loves her and, more importantly, one who has the resources to help her.

But, how many people just as worthy as she is don’t have a family who is willing and able to support them?

Are their lives not worth as much because they aren’t as lucky?

I want to live in a country that helps those who have no place else to turn.

A country full of people who, when they see a homeless guy, or mentally ill person, or a drug addict, ask themselves, “What if that were my family member, or someone that I love? Wouldn’t I want someone to help them, if I wasn’t around, or able, to do so?”

Rather than in a country where people’s brothers, sisters, cousins, friends, and loved ones, are labeled as moochers and freeloaders, because they’ve been unable to make it on their own because of fill in the blank.

Becoming a parent has also proven to strengthen my beliefs.

I often hear people say they are voting for the right because of “family values.”

But, here’s the thing, family values are subjective.

They are not one size fits all.

And, I too, am voting for the left because of family values.

My family values.

When I take a step back and look at both candidates, I wonder if either one of them will really be any different once elected.

My guess? Not so much.

For two reasons:

Once elected both will inevitably gravitate closer to the center, and not act on half of those things that outrage one side and appease the other.

And, as for our current economic state, barring any drastic measures, I don’t believe the President has much influence over it. It’s cyclical, and is going to even out on it’s own, and in it’s own time.

To me, who we elect is much more about the message that it sends, and the tone that is sets, than anything else.

Which brings me back around to family values, and the kind of message I want my boys being exposed to, and the kind of people I want as their role models.

(And, no I’m not talking about every Republican that exists, I know plenty that also don’t drink the Kool-Aid, I’m just talking about the overall message of the party right now.)

When I hear The Right propose a ban on gay marriage, to me, it’s synonymous with bullying. It sends a message that it’s okay to discriminate against someone who is different than you, as long as you’re in the majority. To me, it’s no different than a a group of kids singling out someone who is different than them, punching them in the gut, taking their lunch money, and banishing them to sit alone at a separate table in the school cafeteria.

Ditto on religious intolerance.

What if one of my children is gay? Or a practicing Muslim? Imagine one day discovering that your own mother voted for someone who thinks you are less than?

When I hear a bunch of old, white men, attempting to make decisions for women, to me, it’s no different than if I were to teach my boys that it’s acceptable to try to control and disrespect their female counterparts.

When I hear people shout that we should be an every man for himself society, to me, it’s the same as raising my children not to stick up for people, and to not practice empathy and compassion.

I simply refuse to teach my kids that it’s acceptable to discriminate, bully, and fail to stick up for others, no matter how much power, influence, or privilege they may have.

So, you see, these are my family values, and why I vote the way I vote.

Kool-Aid hasn’t a damn thing to do with it.

And, no matter the outcome of this election, I will continue teaching my boys what I think is right and wrong.

Just as I will continue to kick and scream and voice my beliefs, and probably call people assholes and bigots along the way, no matter how much I try to restrain myself.

Because, when it comes down to it, my family values are just as valuable as yours.

Update: Tomorrow is Spirit Day. So, slip on your purple and proudly stand by your LGBT loved ones, as you stand up against bullying!