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July, 2014
Archive

  • Can I Volunteer To Not Volunteer?

    There are not that many things that make me feel old. The fact that I smoked my first cigarette 23 years ago, used the dewy decimal system to research papers in college, and still think Casio watches are cool… none of that makes me feel decrepit. Yet having a child who is in school, where I have to be a parent and do parent-like things for that school – that makes me feel old as fuck.

    The Munch goes to a Waldorf school where there is a lot of expected parent participation. This gives me so much angst for a variety of reasons. For one, I am selfish with my time. For two, I get social anxiety around groups of people. For three I am selfish with my time.

    It is not that I don’t think it is important. I want to be part of the community of my child’s school. Friends have such a huge impact on socialization and personal growth – knowing the parents your kid interacts with is meaningful. Besides, I want to support the teachers that are now a part of raising my child. I just don’t want to do anything or have anything expected of me.

    The Munch’s school, Cobb Meadow, was planning a fundraiser at a local venue where they host a “make your own pizza” night. People bring their toppings, and the bakery provides the dough, sauce, and cheese. The deal is that Cobb Meadow helps with all the set up and clean up, and then the school got to keep the profits. Great idea! Love it. The parents were supposed to help for this event and there was a sign up sheet for different responsibilities.

    My friend Sierra, who I LOVE, signed up for ice cream duty. Okay cool! I will do that with her. Then there was an email that came out from the Super Mom who organizes all parent participation activities, which stated they needed a clean up crew. Sierra signed up for that as well, and since I do everything Sierra does, so did I.

    I figured if I did two things, it would make up for my lame participation record of the past. I also assumed “cleaning up” meant I would cruise around at the end of the night and maybe pick up trash for 20 minutes. Fine. I can do that!

    The pizza night was a great success and Sierra and I started the clean up process. At first, it all seemed reasonable. Throwing away plates here, picking up cans there, rinsing off a cup here. All good. I brought a bin of pizza stones into the kitchen and assumed my duties were done. It was then that I realized that not only were we expected to wash the stones, but also all the bins, all the trays, and EVERY SINGLE DISH THAT WAS INVOVLED FOR THE KITCHEN TO MAKE THESE GOD FOR SAKEN PIZZAS AND SERVE THEM TO 150 PEOPLE!!!!

    Now, it is not like I couldn’t wash dishes for 2 hours… I just wasn’t mentally prepared for it. If I had known, at least I would have been ready for it. But then again, if I had known, I NEVER WOULD HAVE SIGNED UP TO HELP BECAUSE I AM SELFISH!

    We got started doing the dishes, and immediately the heat in the kitchen was oppressive. The only relief was when the backwash from dirty dishes would spray flour-coated water on you. This was where my complaining began.

    Toni: What the dick! It is as hot as Satan’s scrotum up in here.

    At first it was just Sierra and I in the kitchen, but 40 minutes go by, and hardly a dent was made. We needed reinforcements if we were going to finish by dawn. Munch’s teacher came to help, as well as the Super Mom who organized everything. Now let me be honest. I wanted to impress Munch’s teacher and Super Mom with my work ethic because I feel slightly inadequate about my track record. BUT… I could not stop freaking the fuck out either because the piles of dishes were ETERNAL.

    Sierra wasn’t bothered, because she decided it was a Zen practice. Super Mom is SUPER FUCKING MOM, so she too was totally chill. Munch’s teacher is a FUCKING WALDORF TEACHER who sings through chores and has the cheery disposition of a FUCKING WALDORF PRE SCHOOL TEACHER. Then there was me. WHO WAS LOSING MY FUCKING MIND!

    Despite the fact that I WANTED to come off like a normal person who goes with the flow, is helpful, and pleasant to be around – I physically could not contain myself from bitching every 6 seconds about what was happening. While everyone else was calmly washing dishes and humming I was grumbling “Holy fucking mother of Christ there is more! Son of a cunt! Fucking shit cock!”

    Yeah… so pretty sure I didn’t exactly improve my reputation.
    pizza-night-blog-(i)

    July 31, 2014 • Adventures, Education, Mommyhood, Parenting • Views: 16442

  • You Provoked Me To Think You are A Tool

    Domestic violence is in the air…. Hmmmm for some reason that doesn’t have that same sweet Disco vibe as “Love is in the Air.” Go figure.

    So Baltimore Raven’s running back Ray Rice received a two game suspension after beating up his girlfriend – which is less than the penalty players get for smoking pot. I guess taking bong hits and eating cookie dough is wayyy more offensive to the NFL than hitting women – because at least that burns calories and builds muscle.  When Rice came out for practice yesterday he got a standing ovation from crowd – obviously people are supporting him despite this despicable behavior.

    Sports reporter Stephen Smith rationalized this discrepancy by saying “we also have to make sure that we learn as much as we can about elements of provocation” because, you know how ladies be enticing men to beat them unconscious and stuff.

    Smith of course “apologized” for his statement, but the sentiment is very popular when it comes to how people react to domestic violence. Even Whoopi Goldberg spoke out to defend Rice: “If you make the choice as a woman who’s four foot three and you decide to hit a guy who’s six feet tall and you’re the last thing he wants to deal with that day and he hits you back, you cannot be surprised!”

    Can we pause for a minute here? So the prevailing logic is that if a woman doesn’t want to get her ass kicked, then she shouldn’t make a man mad at her?  The blogesphere can be plagued with comments that echo the idea that women who hit men deserve to be decked.

    Really?

    If a woman was bludgeoning a man with a crow bar, then yes, he is going to physically react. When your life is genuinely threatened, the instinct of self-defense will prevail over all else. Yet if a woman hits a man and he doesn’t feel like he is in danger, then what is his responsibility? Can he use his body to restrain her? Yes. Can he beat her until she blacks out? No. Does this mean there a double standard between the genders when it comes to violence? Well… considering a man can kill a woman with his bare hands, yeah… you are going to have to be held accountable in a different way.  I am a really strong girl… I can hike mountains, swim across lakes, do 30 push ups – but my arms get tired after a hand job that goes on too long.  I couldn’t kill a man unless I had ninja stars! (And been trained in using said ninja stars).

    Margaret Atwood had a point when she said, “Men are afraid that women will laugh at them. Women are afraid that men will kill them.” Just as there is a biological distinction when it comes to strength, there also has to be one when it comes to liability. Yes that holds men up to a different standard when it comes to physical aggression, but the law does the same for people who are highly trained in martial arts. When fighting someone considerably weaker than you, your body can be considered a weapon.

    But you want to talk unfairness when it comes to body accountability? Ummm how about the fact women gush blood every month, then hold babies inside of them while forced to live a sober existence as their bodies are ravaged by swelling joints and hemorrhoids, only to then squeeze a skull out of their love hole which often rips to the anus creating one giant gash. Yeah… men and women are different and we have different challenges.

    So unless guys want to be genetically modified with seahorses so they become the ones who deal with pregnancy and then shooting a being out their pee hole, and in the mean time we juice women up on steroids and testosterone – maybe dudes can just not beat women and seriously endanger their lives?

    provocatoin-blog-(i)

    July 30, 2014 • Current Events, Musings, Relationships, Women's Business • Views: 1482

  • Photoshop The Hell Out of Your Face!

    Oh cool you guys! There is a new app out where you can easily photoshop your face to look like a younger, thinner, more attractive you – but without having to spend all time being a total nerd and learning how to use photoshop. No longer will the tech geeks have all the fun orchestrating vanity for their profile pics. Gone are the days where celebrities will be the only ones to hide under the magic of the “magic wand tool.” Justice has been served. Now you, the average person, can create a false image of self to broadcast to people who already know what you look like – and I am pretty sure will notice something is up.

    I don’t get it. I really don’t. Unless you are an insecure teenager in Iowa “catfishing” people with fake accounts, everyone who looks at a picture of you is already familiar with how you look. What is the point of bedazzling your image for them? So an ex-lover glances at a pic, thinks they may want to smash privates, but then see you in person and realize that you DO in fact have forehead wrinkles which only provokes them to run away screaming “the HORROR!”

    Would people photoshop themselves for themselves? Because they are sick of looking at pictures with smile lines and a slightly bigger right eye? Would fixing that on a screen make them feel better about who looks back in the mirror?

    What is the deal? Why are we so obsessed with looks when the root of attraction is smell? The odors we emit through pheromones are way more sexually provocative than having a nose that is smaller than your nostril. If you want to find a mate, take their face, shove it into your armpits, and let them take a good whiff. They will know right away whether or not they want to get down with what you are putting out.

    I know we are all socialized creatures, and easily corrupted by the images we are force-fed by the media regarding the ideal of beauty. Both men and women are besieged with pressures to be physically appealing, and therefore attractiveness is often linked to self-esteem. But guess what!? The world of marketing isn’t going to change – they are selling products and we keep buying. So next time you are feeling less than because you aren’t a size zero, or have undulating muscles, or a face as symmetrical as a snowflake – rather than photoshopping yourself, get into your animal instincts and have someone waft your genitals.

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    July 29, 2014 • Current Events, Musings • Views: 2552

  • So That Was A Total Fail…

    It is hard to figure out how to motivate someone to improve. What is the best strategy to encourage behaviors you would like to see more of? Do you tell people all the stuff they are doing wrong, and hope they change out of shame/guilt? Do you give them incentives, or bribes? Or do you try and manipulate by telling stories, and comparing them to others?

    The other day my friend Gita was visiting a friend of hers, who has a little daughter slightly older than Munch. I asked Gita how her time was with this little cherub. I was then informed that this girl had not only NEVER watched ANYTHING EVER on a SCREEN, but also just had her first “sweet treat” in the six years she has been alive on planet earth. It was a piece of organic dark chocolate, and it was rejected for being “too sweet.”

    Yeah, I had those plans when I first became a parent. My child was never going to be exposed to the evils of screen media, only play with wooden spoons, speak Mandarin, and exclusively eat green vegetables bathed under the moonlight of the 7th solstice. But I failed. None of that worked out at all. The Munch LOVES eating treats, and if she had her way she would watch the Little Mermaid for 19 straight hours without moving – except to ask for more ice cream.

    I showed The Munch a picture of said perfect little angel from the planet of purity, and explained that Auntie Gita was on vacation with her.

    Toni: Doesn’t that little girl look nice?
    Munch: Yeah… she does.
    Toni: Maybe you will be friends with her one day?
    Munch: Yeah! That would be fun!
    Toni: Do you want to know what Auntie Gita told me?
    Munch: What?
    Toni: She told me that little girl has never watched anything ever. No movies, no shows, no nothing?
    Munch: Not even Frozen?
    Toni: No. And you know what else Gita told me? That she has never eaten any treats!
    Munch: Mom. That is the saddest thing I have ever heard. We should send her some of our treats. Like we should send them on the plane today.

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  • We Pass More Than Genes To Our Children

    I have always felt that the lives we live somehow can become imprinted onto the next generation. Our memories are not just abstract apparitions, but there is an actual tangible substance to experiences, and that information gets transferred into our cells. The body is not just a functional apparatus unaware of the emotions the heart/brain/soul feel, but is intimately connected to all that we go through.

    Maybe that sounds like some hippy new age esoteric frou frou la la land… but guess what!? Science kind of agrees with me.

    “New research from Emory University School of Medicine, in Atlanta, has shown that it is possible for some information to be inherited biologically through chemical changes that occur in DNA. During the tests they learned that that mice can pass on learned information about traumatic or stressful experiences – in this case a fear of the smell of cherry blossom – to subsequent generations.”

    I have been thinking a lot about war lately because of all the turmoil in Gaza. There is so much suffering people are forced to endure. How can that not be transferred onto their children? When you think about slavery, the holocaust, genocide, war torn countries… what humans have been exposed to is so extreme, so extraordinarily brutal, how could those remembrances not be part of generations to come?

    A child doesn’t have to live the pain of their parents to still be impacted. A young black child in America can still feel the rage of slavery that their great great grandmother lived through. A Jewish child in Germany may still sense the terror of the concentration camp their grandfather barely survived from. So many kids who perhaps live charmed lives compared to what their families underwent are still viscerally affected by the crimes of history.

    Considering how there is this tangible prospect that trauma permeates through the people who live through it, how does a society that has been fractured truly heal from the past? Injustice is so powerful it has a life of its own. At what point will we cleanse the horror of how we treat each other and birth a generation that is free from the burden of agony?

    Sigh

    On that note… have an awsum weekend!

    pain-blog-(i)

     

    July 25, 2014 • Current Events, Musings, Political Banter • Views: 1430

  • Death On The Farm

    One of the unique advantages of growing up in certain pockets of America is that you have very little exposure to death. For millions of people in the US, the first time they witness mortality is the loss of a grandparent, or maybe a beloved pet. Unlike many parts of the world (and areas ravaged by poverty / violence here) where murder, bombs, war, famine, rampant disease, or starvation are part of a daily existence – there are those in this country who are sheltered from the brutality of untimely death.

    I wonder what it is like for all the children of the planet who have experienced or witnessed multiple violent deaths by the time most American children still can’t wipe their own ass. Does that instill upon them a greater appreciation for life? Or would so much pain make them jaded and discouraged – left wondering what is the point? Does sheltering our children from the anguish of mortality only make death more tragic when they do experience it?

    Living in the country gives The Munch a very quaint childhood. She doesn’t see homelessness, extreme scarcity, or the frayed bodies of dead humans obliterated by drone attacks. Everything around her is seemingly idyllic. As far as The Munch perceives, the world is a benevolent place filled with peace and harmony. Existence is nothing but kittens cuddling on a bed of pussy willows drinking hot chocolate through a vanilla bean straw while humming show tunes and licking clean the eyelids of sleeping babies. She has no concept of the true and brutal reality for most of humanity.

    Although as a parent you want to preserve the innocence of your child, I would be very concerned about the naivety of The Munch’s existence if we didn’t live on a farm. Yet because we are surrounded by wildlife, we witness the viciousness of nature almost every day.

    Just this summer alone, a fox murdered all 16 of our chickens. Didn’t eat them, but tore them apart and left pieces of their physiques littered throughout the lawn. The Munch would turn to me and say, “Look Mom, a chicken feather.” I would turn to see what she was talking about, and Munch would be holding an entire chicken butt – like the whole ass of a chicken – as if it were no thing.

    A week later – a fisher cat eviscerated one of our guinea hens. The Munch and I saw a pile of plumage on the grass, and The Munch’s reaction was “oh dear, one of the guinea hens got killed. Look at all the beautiful feathers.”

    When the baby turkeys come to harvest for the winter holiday season, The Munch will hold them in her hands lovingly while discussing how when they get bigger, her babysitter Lilliana along with her husband Farmer John, will cut all their heads off for Thanksgiving. For Munch all this death is natural and normal. Our cat Omega is like the American Psycho of felines, and most mornings we wake up to a half chewed mouse, or a bird with no head. Munch is totally unfazed and rationalizes this as, “Omega is so silly – she loves eating mice even though we have food for her.”

    I think because we live amongst the cycles of mother Gaia, The Munch is at least accepting of the idea of death. The other day she said she wanted a parrot, and I said we probably couldn’t get one right now because Omega would eat it, or Mona our dog would chase it.

    Munch: Okay. We will wait until Omega and Mona die – then we will get a parrot. I love my cat and dog sooooo much, but they are really old.

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  • How Can I Make You Notice Me?

    You ever have one of those moments that is so bizarre you think you are being filmed? Like the only way to give context to what you are experiencing is that someone is behind a camera orchestrating the insanity. You look around at the people witnessing the lunacy, and wonder if they too are perplexed, or if you the one who is mad for noticing the madness.

    I had one of those moments last weekend when I took a modern dance workshop about the art of performance. The teacher was a dancer whose career started in the 1960’s in New York City, and every stereotype you would assign to a dance teacher from 1960’s New York applied. She wasn’t a person as much as a character out of fiction, but at the same time, she was also a genius.

    Her hair traveled down to her knees as did her breasts in a hot pink leotard, but her beauty shone through any signs of aging. She would make sweeping statements like “the light of the stage supports the aura inside” and then face the window and lose herself in the moment for five whole minutes – oblivious to the passing of time. Then she would have us leave the room so we couldn’t see each other to perform for each other – which was as crazy as it was brilliant. This exercise was followed by another where each one of us would strike a pose in the center of the room while everyone else put their faces inches from your body to stare. We were asked to grab a pedestrian prop and oscillate between performing with it, and interacting with it as if no one was watching – but still while everyone was watching. Everything she did made no sense at all, and yet was totally profound.

    The question she asked that I can’t get out of my head is “what makes you look at one person and not another?” What draws you to someone when they are performing? What makes you notice them more than others?

    I think her inquiry was much more philosophical than practical. Although I will never have an exact answer, just asking the question is meaningful. My initial reaction was intention. The performer has to be really clear with their intention regarding what they want the audience to feel. Having good technique is of course important when it comes to any art form; yet it is not the totality of what makes something great. There has to be passion, substance, and belief behind what you are doing to truly stand out.

    I see a lot of talented mechanical dancers who can do things with their body that are unimaginable, yet they don’t project out into the audience. You are watching them dance, but it is as if they don’t care if you are there. Their energy is too internal, and they are not externalizing emotion. Sure there are times when someone could shut me out as the spectator of their work, but there has to be purpose behind it. Like they want me to feel left out for a reason. The person creating the art has to have vision behind what they are doing in order for me to connect to them.

    When I think to back to my own relationship to dance, I started really late, but my trajectory has taught me more about art than any class ever could. When I was 19 years old, I was in a state of rebellion and did not want to go to college. Considering both my parents were professors, very liberal, and gave me a lot of freedom – this was the best “fuck you” I could think of. Yet my not getting a higher education was a non-option unless I wanted to be disowned, so I filled out the common application and told my mom to send me wherever she wanted.

    I got into this school called Sarah Lawrence that was very artsy fartsy. When I arrived the first day I took one look around and was like “holy fuck get me out of here.” I called my mom and asked her why she sent me to The Lilith Fair for college, but she told me to stop being so ridiculous. I had gone to a really preppy high school where I had played sports all my life, and my artistic self had been only been expressed through doodling pictures of hearts with boy’s names inside. I had no idea how to fit in to this new environment. Everyone was supposed to take an art elective, and I had no artistic talent that I knew of.

    I started taking dance because there was no soccer team. I liked to go out dancing at the club and drink vodka, so I figured this was the next best thing. Forget the fact that I was surrounded by girls who had been doing plies their whole life, and felt like a fool. It was really humbling to suck, but I had to commit myself to something, and figured at least dance would help me avoid the Freshman 15.

    What I lacked in experience I made up for in enthusiasm. I would take extra classes in New York city every weekend, I would do summer programs, I would get to class early and leave late just so I could stretch more. I knew I wasn’t the best, but I was going to be the most dedicated.

    The dance teachers at my school probably were amused by my perseverance, but I don’t think they thought I had any real future in dance. I started too late, and that was that. My best dance friend Mika was another girl who also wasn’t a bun-head since birth, but who shared my undying dedication. Her and I spend all our time dancing, and even though we were not taken as seriously as the other girls who had the history we lacked, we still took each other and ourselves seriously.

    Fast forward 15 years and I saw Mika for the fist time in a decade at a hippy conference where I was teaching belly dance. Do you know what she is doing with her life and career? Dancing! She performs all the time, is a dance teacher, owned a studio, travels the world to do field work, got her masters in dance, and is now getting her PHD at UCLA in dance theory. Her love for dance made dance her life!

    From that first class that I took, I have been dancing 5 days a week since. I teach dance, perform, choreograph, and own a dance studio. The irony of this aspect of my life is that dance was something I always considered a hobby. I never expected it to be anything more than a creative outlet, so it was always fun, and life affirming. Yet it has become a really stable part of my current career. But as with my writing, which is what I WANT as my career more than anything in the whole fucking world, I am still struggling.

    I guess I have to admit that there something about the fact that I never had any specific agenda with dance beyond a devotional practice that has made it the most consistent part of my life.

    (My darling Mika…)

    noitce-me-blog-(i)

    July 23, 2014 • Musings, Old School Stories, Working Mommy • Views: 1999

  • The Expectation of Sex

    When you are in a relationship, there is an expectation that you are going to rub private parts in some sort of a rhythmic fashion relatively often. Part of committing yourself to someone is the guarantee that you can get laid without having to spend a night on the prowl, hunting for someone to fluid bond with. We settle down not only for love, intimacy, and connection – but also so you don’t have to work as hard to get your rocks off.

    Recently, a husband sent his wife a spreadsheet documenting all the times he asked her for sex, and all the times she rejected him. Supposedly he tried to initiate banging 27 times over the course of 7 weeks, and was vetoed all but 3 times – sighting excuses such as “I am gross and sweaty, I am too full and drunk, you are too drunk, I need a shower I am gross, and I am tired.” So this charming husband sent his wife this document of proof, which she in turn uploaded to Reddit for the world to see.

    For me, the most important and relevant question that is not addressed is HOW did this man initiate sex? Did he just pull out his cock and balls and say “how about some of dese nuts?” Did he randomly grab her boob while she was watching TV and expect her to get all randy? Was he wiggling his ass in her face and pointing to his anus while she was unloaded the dishwasher? Context is important! If he was making an actual effort to entice her and she kept shutting him down than I think his frustration is somewhat justified, but if he was just pushing his boner against her ass while she was trying to reach for a glass of water, then come on man…

    There are obviously a lot of “red flags” when it comes to this particular “Microsoft Office” relationship, but I think the spreadsheet is indicative of a problem familiar to many couples. Sometimes one partner wants to boff, and the other isn’t interested. Obviously communication is key when it comes to a healthy sex life, but so is romance and courtship. When you first get together you would never assume sex just because your gonads were enflamed – you would put in a little “one two how’s your father” so the person you desire gets in the mood. In a new relationship you wouldn’t act like sex was a given, and there would be attention to sensuality.

    On the one hand if you have been with someone a long time, you don’t always want to cook a 7-course meal and light enough candles to create a fire hazard for a grind session. Yet there is a middle ground between a weekend Paris and pointing at your junk and grunting “now.” Just because you are in a relationship doesn’t mean you own their body, nor does it mean they owe their body to you. When part of a couple it is pretty common that someone will give into sex because they don’t want to reject their lover, not because they are actually interested in getting naked. People pout and get offended when turned down, but we also can be really presumptuous that it is something indebted to us.

    Sex should be a mutual exchange that is rooted in mutual desire. If you aren’t getting it enough, that is probably indicative of other parts of the dynamic that need to be addressed. Long-term monogamy isn’t exactly a recipe for lust, yet it is still important to throw a little game at your lover.

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  • Perfect in Your Imperfections

    When you see a picture of yourself, what is the first thing you notice? If you see a video of you just acting like you, what do you see when staring at your own moving image? Do you think to yourself – “wow, look at that special person, way to go me!” Or do your eyes immediately gravitate to all your imperfections?

    I remember back in the day when there used to be answering machines, the sound of my own voice was more irritating than puking kittens sliding down a chalk board while a tea kettle whistled in the background and a car alarm went off. I couldn’t stand how I sounded, and it was really hard to believe that anyone could tolerate that horrendous auditory assault that came out of my face hole.

    Nowadays, it is too easy to document everything, and see exactly what people see when they look at you all day. So many pictures of myself make me think “holy fuck – that is what I look like when I am not paying attention and staring off into the cosmos? I need to shut my damn mouth and work on that weak chin of mine!” It is hard to remember that people probably aren’t as critical of you as you are of yourself because everyone is too busy thinking of themselves. But still… it is really humbling to come face to face with all the fucked up faces you make throughout any given day.

    I envy the days when it took half a lifetime of sanding sand just to make a mirror. The human mind is designed to pick a part the good and sift out negativity. We are critical by nature, and often our own harshest critics. That is probably why we envy the naivety of children so much. They live in this blissful state of not noticing or caring about the little flaws that seem so detrimental to us. A small child won’t think your tummy is pudgy, but rather see your paunch as comfy pillow. I remember loving the feeling of lying on my dad’s stomach because it was soft, and not rock hard abs jutting into my cheekbone.

    Kids are really oblivious to their own imperfections as well. They run around with chocolate on their face, their hair all fucked up, and not caring that their clothes are covered in snot stains. There is innocence to their lack of awareness. So it has been really challenging to watch how The Munch has to encounter the reality of her flaws because of her wandering eye. Everyday now Munch has to wear her eye patch, so she is forced to remember that something isn’t right about her.

    Munch: Mom I don’t want to wear the eye patch. I HATE wearing the eye patch.
    Toni: I know it isn’t easy. But you have to wear it so you don’t get surgery and the doctor doesn’t have to poke your eye.
    Munch: Will the doctor take my eyeball out?
    Toni: Uhhhh I don’t really know how it works, but it doesn’t look fun.
    Munch: I don’t want the doctor to take my eyeball out.
    Toni: Well, they would put it back in. But that is why you are wearing the patch. So your eye gets strong, and you don’t have to.
    Munch: But why do I have a lazy eye?
    Toni: Because nobody is perfect, and we all have problems.

    Sigh. Even though I know this to be true, it is just hard that she has to be aware so young. I am hoping that this means she will have a higher tolerance and acceptance of herself in the future.

    (Here is mom rocking the patch to make Munch feel better)

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