Nay, Neigh, Nay

When you hear the hoof beats of a nightmare in your sleep, the heart palpitations match the rhythm.

When Nightmare Fabric was born, the phrase echoing in the background was:

Merely because I have not dreamt it does not mean it does not come to fruition.”

Let’s talk of the things no one dreams for themselves or others.

During a routine downtime/volunteer (recess) lesson, Little V mispronounced the name of male genitalia. The Grammar Nazi instantly supplied the correct pronunciation and listened intently to the remainder of the identification of anatomical human parts. At its conclusion, she asked the meaning of “penis”. Its urinary function was proclaimed.

The next sentence bore fear, fury and frustration, though none came from its speaker.

“So that is what Man’s pee-sprayer thingy is.”

Pause for one heart to stop.

“Have you seen Man’s penis?”

“Yes, Momma.”

“When did you see Man’s penis?”

This is where the story could have stopped, and the world could have remained intact. It did not.

She has a hard time with questions, especially questions about time and “why” questions. She said, “I am not supposed to tell.” The heartbeat returned, now racing.

For the third time, “When did you see Man’s penis?”

Her next actions were indicative of revealing a secret. Finally, she said, “Man wants me to suck it and suck it all the time.” Heartbeat freezes. “I told him I was not a grown up lady. I don’t want to marry Man.”

“I don’t want you to marry Man, either.” With a warm smile, soft body language and no reproof, “Take your brother into your room and play. Thank you. I love you.” They complied.

Karma

There is a dire backlash for those who abuse children. There is a far more destructive backlash for those who abuse handicapped children.

No, the American justice system is not the backlash of which I speak. Neither is physical harm I may daydream for the perpetrator, someone once trusted. Neither still is the lake of fire, for one must believe in such to see it as justice.

In due course, the abuser becomes the abused in the befitting manner.

Until such time, my heart beats softly. Only in love can I begin to heal the hurt caused by someone else. In the end, it is my sole profession. I am Momma.

Mistake?

Do not mistake the calm demeanor as anything beyond my being nonplussed[1] over an act I find egregious to the point of being unforgivable. Before you cast the stone with the note attached Forgiveness is for the forgiver, stop. Read. (Both parts.)

In the nanoseconds following her admission, the topic was appropriately reported and then curtailed until it could be explored in the presence of a licensed professional. Very few have that level of forethought. After far too many years in the legal field, I am all amply acquainted with the steps in a criminal investigation of sexual molestation of juveniles. The investigation is often more painful than the act itself. Ours has already revealed more than she did that day in January.

The range of emotion fluttering just between the heartbeats is broader than the horizon. At the moment, anger is edging sadness only by a nose.

The posts which follow will take M3 back to its psychological roots. The intent is to shake the tree below the foundation, knock off the dust and manure, bare the gnarls for what they truly are. Ask the questions, especially if you do not know the answers. Piece by piece, we are going to discuss it all from the cradle to the grave.

Buckle up, Buttercup.

I will ever remain,