Wednesday

I said I wanted to go. Even though I didn't really want to go. But I felt like I was supposed to want to go. Or something.

So we went. I drove my mom back to the cemetary, back past the funeral staging area where we waited in our cars for what felt like forever, in the cold and the rain. Where I had stared out the window and told Jason I wanted to be cremated, then stared at my feet and silently regretted my choice of footwear. 

The weather was beautiful this year, so we parked farther away, where the car wouldn't possibly get in the way of any other funeral. We started walking down the grassy aisles and I silently regretted my choice of stroller. I should have brought the sturdier one, not the cheap car seat stroller frame that got stuck on every lump and divot in the ground. The ground that was full of bodies. 

My mom got turned around and confused about the rows. The rows and rows of identical markers, so we marched up one and then had to turn around and the stroller got caught on a bit of raised earth around the corner of a headstone -- a dead stranger's headstone, oh my God, I'm sorry, I'm sorry -- and I felt small, quiet waves of panic and nausea deep within my chest as I pushed my baby back down another narrow row, back over the ground that was full of bodies.

My mom has visited every week -- she says it helps, to see a physical reminder of his life, to feel a connection to his spirit. But today she can't find "him" because we took a different path in, because of the stroller. The flowers she had delivered on Sunday are already gone, so there's nothing to do but check the numbers on the back of the markers and keep counting down the rows. Until we find him. Him.

My mom kisses the headstone and talks to him. She tells him I am there, and Baby Ike is there, and I am fully plunged into a silent internal freak-out because no. No. He is not here. He is not here at all. I am not introducing my baby to a patch of ground and a stone; I am not contemplating what lies beneath us; what lies all around us. Loss, death, decay.

My mom asks if I want to take a picture. I have no idea what I want anymore, or what I'm supposed to want to do. But I take a picture anyway. Then another. Then my phone freezes up and won't take any more pictures. I get annoyed with it on principle, for some reason. 

"I'm not good with cemetaries," I say very quietly, as if this was a Thing, a Quirk, some established known fact about me. Here Lies Amy Corbett Storch: She didn't like the phone, volcanoes, raw onions and cemetaries. 

I'd never set actually foot in a cemetary before. His funeral didn't even count; it was way over there, in a gazebo, away from this field and this ground, this ground full of bodies and everywhere I step I'm doing spatial math about the length of the average casket and whether I'm walking directly above a body. On a body? A body who was someone's loved one and here I am pushing a stroller frame on top of them? I should have used the Ergo, I should have stayed on the pavement until I knew where we were going, I should...

I should not have come here.

This is awful. I feel awful. And not just about the headstones and the ground full of bodies. As I stare at his name etched in marble, he has never felt more...gone. It has never felt so final and complete than it does in this moment. 

"I'm not good with cemetaries" I whisper again. My chest is tight and my breathing is shallow. I want to leave. I want to leave and I don't want to come back. 

My mom understands. She understands completely. She says we can go, so we do. 

***

We stop for breakfast on the way back. Ike eats a plate of scrambled eggs and a bowl of strawberries and bananas. The mess is terrific, but the waitresses don't seem to mind because he's smiling at them in between double-fisted mouthfuls. An old friend calls because she wants to meet the baby; my mother-in-law offers to take him later so my mom and I can go out for dinner together. After that, I set up the Roku I bought her for Christmas and we watch Downton Abbey.

I spend the rest of the day above the ground, where it's easier to breathe. And before I know it, I wake up. And it was Thursday.

AND ALSO...

Today is Noah's final IEP meeting of the year. This is the big one, where we determine his placement and service level for first grade. And I get to argue with someone who thinks we're "hiding" a medical diagnosis from the school because she observed him for 20 whole minutes and therefore knows more than any of the dozen other people who spend hours and hours with him on a regular basis and STILL can't settle on a single diagnostic label because "QUIRKY" DOESN'T COUNT.

It's super exciting, especially since this week needed just a little more stress.

The papers on the left are the remaining goals from this year's (admittedly lean) IEP. The stack on the right is the draft for next year. I anticipate that it will roughly double in size by the end of the meeting. And that's with a recommendation for more time in general ed next year.

(Turns out Noah is very good at math. I still can't multiply by nine without looking at my fingers.)

Anyway. Wish us luck? Afterwards Ike and I are headed up to visit my mom and...all that other stuff, so maybe wish me some wine, too. 

Flip side, catch ya there, etc. 

Countdown

Wednesday is coming.

Wednesday is coming and with it comes sadness and heaviness and a sense that I will need to say something -- to write something -- and that I should know what that something is by now. But to figure that something out, I would need to be thinking about it, about the sadness and the heaviness, instead of pretending that Wednesday is not coming.

Pretending it doesn't mean as much as it does, this weirdly arbitrary-when-you-think-about-it block of 365 days plus one, for leap day, which makes it feel even stranger, like I should be dreading Tuesday but the Gregorian calendar is dictating that no, thou shalt be sad on Wednesday. 

Pretending that I will not be spending it visiting his grave and comforting my mother and basically powering through the day (C'MON THURSDAY!) as quickly as possible so it doesn't crush me like a gnat and I'm not making any sense here, today, on the Friday before, which doesn't give me much hope for coming up with the right words on Wednesday. 

Ya know? 

Probably not. That's okay. Me neither. 

Here's a video of Ike begging for ice cream while Noah asks for permission to watch Angry Birds videos on "YouToo," (which we rarely let him do anymore after realizing what YouTube considers to be a "related video" to Angry Bird cut scenes), and Ezra was there too but he's busy eating ice cream and anyway, it was a nice dinner together outside in the warm weather and Ike's little mouth makes me smile. A lot. 

Baby Ike Likes Ice Cream from amalah on Vimeo.

That feels right for today, I think.

Top Mini Chef

Hey! Let's talk about Ezra's cooking camp, all of a sudden! Because I am literally going to explode all over the place if I don't get some of this cuteness out of my system.

(WARNING BRAGGING AHEAD WHATEVER FUCK YOU IT'S MY BLOG)

So a couple weeks ago, Ezra started a once-weekly "Mini Chefs" class at our YMCA, for three- and four-year-olds. I admit we didn't even know exactly what we were signing him up for, other than OH EM GEE CHEFS THAT ARE MINI. It was $50 for six weeks and sounded adorable. Sold! We'll just go ahead and assume it's not a Hell's Kitchen reboot for the Disney Channel, or something.

I admit I was a teensy bit disappointed at the lack of little kid-sized aprons or chef's hats, and it's a drop-off class so I haven't gotten any good photos of Ezra in full mini-cheffing action. However, 1) IT'S A DROP-OFF CLASS WHUT WHUT, and 2) holy crap, Ezra is having the time of his life there.

Every day, he begs and begs to go to cooking class. There are tears, when I must tell him that alas, not today. At pick-up, while most of the other children have wandered off to read books or play with other stuff in the classroom, Ezra is still shadowing the teacher, helping her clean up and put things away. "Where dis go? Where dis go? I helping!" 

Last week they made yogurt with fresh fruit. And while Ezra really is a very good eater, yogurt has always been one of the few things he really doesn't like. Until...well, last week. He was so proud of his blackberry yogurt that he ate the whole thing. 

A few nights ago, I -- on the advice of his regular preschool teacher -- handed him a "real" knife and asked him to help me with dinner. (The Montessori theory is that dull knives will simply lead to frustration with the task, and that it's best to teach children to use and respect sharp objects from the start, blah de bloop blah.) And then I stood behind him and watched that child CORRECT HIS KNIFE GRIP before carefully and meticulously chopping up some cauliflower florets. 

My three-year-old has better knife skills than I do, officially. He would CRUSH me in a mise-en-place challenge.

He's completely cooking-obsessed. Every day he stages elaborate picnics and birthday parties, involving every single piece of play food he owns. (And oh, but he owns a lot.) Yesterday he climbed on our bed and made me giant "sandwiches" out of the pillows. 

He wants to taste EVERYTHING. Vegetables, meats, fish, even the individual herbs and spices I pull out for dinner. Any toddler-regression into Beige Foods is over with, and it's AMAZING. I took him grocery shopping at Whole Foods on Sunday and it was like...well, like a kid in a candy store, only with artichokes and bell peppers.

The class also covers basic nutrition, including the four food groups, so everything is all "Apples are a fruit! Carrots are a vegetable!" And (my personal heart-squee favorite) "Cookies are in the GRAINS GROUP!"

Grains group. Shut up, mini chef! SHUT UP BEFORE I EAT YOUR FACE OFF. 

To celebrate his YMCA rock-star-ness, I took him to the bookstore and bought him a kids' cookbook so we could have "extra" cooking camp days at home. 

I'm now reading recipes to him as bedtime stories. I...am not making any of this up. 

I remember once, a loooooong time ago, standing outside a restaurant with Noah, who was in full-sensory-freak-out mode. Another mother came by with her daughter and said some sympathetic, well-meaning things. She was really very nice about it.

I said something vague, "Like, yeah, he's having a hard time today." She assumed it was food related, like the restaurant had the audacity to serve grilled cheese on weird bread, or something. She started talking about her daughter and food and how I should buy this kids' cookbook because it totally changed their life, once they starting making food together. 

"If they make it, they eat it!" she gushed. "Now her favorite food is SUSHI!"

I can't remember what I said -- I know I was polite, at least, and not "BITCH YOU DON'T KNOW MY LIFE," or anything horrid like that. But I do remember thinking how nice that must be, for it to be that simple.

Because OF COURSE I'd tried to get Noah involved in the kitchen. OF COURSE I'd read that same advice about asking picky eaters to cook and prepare meals and tried it on many, multiple occasions. His occupational therapist even provided us with fun recipe cards and we subscribed to a preschooler magazine that included kid-friendly cooking projects. Macaroni-and-cheese muffins, Noah! Doesn't that sound...um...interesting?

Noah reacted to my requests and offers the same way he reacted to so many things, both innocent and genuinely unpleasant: NO, NOT EVEN, YOUR JEDI MIND TRICKS DO NOT WORK ON ME.

The memory of this encounter flooded back to me while Ezra and I stood in line at the bookstore, getting ready to pay for his cookbook. Pretend Soup. The very book she mentioned. Huh.

Dinnertime remains frustrating for Noah, perhaps even more so lately, since Ezra's little culinary explosion has pushed me out of my lazy Let's Just Not Make Dinner Such A Hassle habits. I've been making more of a concentrated effort to put more variety on the table, AND to give them exactly what we eat, instead of endless dumbed-down versions of pasta with hidden veggies in the sauce. Noah's definitely trying more new foods on a regular basis, as a result, but he sure isn't happy about it. And isn't afraid to let me know exactly how terrible he thinks this whole business is. And how mean I am. And etc. 

Over the weekend I caved, however, to his endless pleas for some macaroni and cheese with NO WEIRD STUFF IN IT. (Though little does he know that I haven't served up mac-n-cheese -- boxed or otherwise -- without a generous heaping of pureed cauliflower, white beans or squash in it for YEARS, ha HA.) I grabbed the Annie's and looked around for the pot. Noah had it. 

"I want to help," he said. 

And he did. 

If You Liked It You Shoulda Put A Padlock On It

Here's a bit of advice I wish someone had given me, once I had a child: HIDE. YO. JEWELRY. (DUMBASS).

I know! Small, shiny, expensive things plus small, grabby, impulsive toddlers. Who woulda thunk THAT was a recipe for disaster? Certainly not me. Because, well, (DUMBASS).

Once, a looooong time ago, my engagement ring vanished from my dresser. I looked everywhere for it. I knew it had to be in the house somewhere, and I suspected that then-two-year-old Noah was probably responsible for the disappearance, but that didn't exactly help me find it. And the house is full of places from which no ring would ever likely return: floor vents, an uncovered hole in the wall from a budget cable install, drains, toilets...God. Damn. It.

About a month later I randomly picked up a small ceramic Noah's Ark someone gave us (because GEDDIT?) and heard something rattling around inside. After a little shaking and prodding...out fell my ring. There was exactly one gap large enough for it to fit through -- right between a giraffe and a elephant -- and that's exactly where Noah had put it. 

Lesson learned! 

Except...not.

Two years ago, my wedding band went missing -- not my ORIGINAL wedding band, of course. That one cost us all of thirty-five bucks, and sports a typo on the engraving, for that extra touch of class. That one was right where I left it, on my nightstand. 

But the gorgeous diamond one? The one Jason bought me after Ezra was born, the same year as our 10th wedding anniversary ? The single most beautiful piece of jewelry I'd ever been given that we really couldn't afford but he didn't care because he loooooved me?

Yep. Poof.

I was devastated. I couldn't even wrap my mind around the idea that it was gone, that I might not find it. I moved furniture, I emptied drawers, closets, and upended everything besides the floorboards in our bedroom. Then I did the same thing to every other room in the house. I quizzed the boys -- especially Ezra, who was not even two years old, but fearsomely mobile. And adorably verbal in the LEAST HELPFUL WAY POSSIBLE. 

"Where's Mommy's ring, Ezra?"

"Mommy ring all gone!" 

Or:

"HERE MOMMY RING, MOMMY!" 

"WHAT? WHAT?"

*hands over glow-in-the-dark plastic ring from the dentist's office, beams proudly*

"Sigh. Thanks, dude."

I kept hoping that like my engagement ring, it would turn up again, eventually. In some crazy, off-the-wall place. Eventually, though, I gave up.

Jason somewhat not-so-secretly suspected the cleaning service we used for awhile -- I really didn't, but I did come to accept that the likely solution to the puzzle was that my ring got knocked to the floor and vaccuumed up. Especially since by the time it occurred to me to call and beg them to not empty the vaccuum bag...they'd already emptied the vaccuum bag. 

(As much as I hate housework, we no longer use a cleaning service. And no lie, the biggest reason I let them go -- besides the cost -- was that I wanted the freedom to drop important shit on the floor occasionally without fear of losing it.)

I went back to wearing my plain original band and nothing else -- even my engagement ring became painful to look at, because I couldn't stop picturing how much nicer it looked next to that beautiful, wonderful, missing-forever ring that I lost because I was careless and too lazy to stick it in my jewelry box or HELL, open the DRAWER that was RIGHT THERE instead of tossing it on my toddler-eye-level nightstand like an IDIOT, and WHY didn't I ever get around to adding it to our homeowners' insurance like Jason asked me to, GAAAAHHHHHH IDIOT. 

My most recent gasp of ring-recovery hope was the thought that maybe it would turn up in 16 years or so, on a carrot. That could happen again, right?

No. Probably not.

 But I think I like this ending better anyway.

Home Sweet Hazmat

(What up, people. This is a sponsored post. Big thanks to Oreck and the AirInstinct Air Purifier. As usual, there's an awesome giveaway at the end and lots of me making an idiot out of myself in the meantime. Enjoy!) 

One of the weekend prompts for the March Photo a Day challenge on Instragram was "a corner of my home." A lot of people chose nice, neat, book-filled corners. As I do not own one those corners, nor did I have the energy to clean and organize and stage a fake one, I posted this instead:

I admit that even before I had all these children (and all their related sold-separately accessories), housekeeping was not really my forte. I have a very high tolerance for clutter and a natural knack for procrastination. (Both of which I am clearly passing on to the next generation, since that photo above was at least taken after we told the kids to "clean up.")

Now there's a cat and a dog and three boy-children -- two of which have officially started to Smell Like Boys on a regular basis, and I have not nommed on their little footsies in a very long time because STANK, DUDES -- I just...I don't know. It's overwhelming. It's...disgusting. 

SEVEN DISGUSTING CORNERS OF MY HOME, LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT THEM:

1) Shoe rack in front foyer, filled with shoes that emanate the aforementioned radioactive foot stank.

2) Kitchen sink/disposal/trashcan area, filled with various unspeakable things that attract various wildlife.

3) Basement, better known as the place the dog likes to spite-poop on the floor whenever it rains outside. Also, one time Jason saw a snake and I will never, ever, ever, never stop being freaked out about that. 

4) Cloth diaper pail, at top of the stairs, outside the nursery. Everything is all well and good when it's just sitting there closed, but when the lid comes off...well, let's just say things get very, very REAL up in this bizzatch.

5) Noah and Ezra's closet. This one I will never understand. I wash their clothes. I do. I wash their clothes on an extremely regular basis and use perfectly nice-smelling detergent. Then I fold and hang up clean, perfectly nice-smelling clothes. Yet that closet smells exactly like feet and sweaty hair, mixed with a vague hint of maple syrup.

6) Noah and Ezra's bathroom. Holy God.

7) The closet in my office. There's a litter box in there. Now that poor old Max is really and truly aged, it's unfair to hide his litter far away from his favorite place to be (my lap). So FINE. Nearby closet it is.

So you'll never guess which corner of my home got the super-sweet air purifier, right? 

(AWKWARD SEGUE IS AWKWARD.)

Anywayyeah. Oreck sent me a (freeeeee!) AirInstinct Air Purifier just in time, and while I gave them my whole "I'm not a review blogger but will be happy to find an appropriate, conversational topic that fits with your brand blah dee blah blah" pitch, it would be unfair of me to not include the relevant fact that I LOVE THIS THING TO ABSOLUTE DEATH. Hot ham, it's fabulous, and if you ask me about it in person I will make overly-dramatic faces about it. 

Hello! I am EVE from WALL-E crossed with an iPhone! I am your silent soldier in the war on disgustingness! Do you smell anything coming from that closet over there? Do you sense any litter dust in the air? No, you do not. FACE. I also offer mood lighting! 

Am I easily impressed? Maybe. But maybe not. I like to think I'm pretty grounded and measured about a lot of th-OH MY GOD YOU GUYS I JUST FOUND A DOLLAR. IT WAS UNDERNEATH THIS GROSS PILE OF SOCKS AND GRANOLA BAR WRAPPERS THE WHOLE TIME!

***

Would you like an EVE of your very own? Aw yeah you do. 

1) Visit Oreck.com. Then come back here and comment, including one thing you learned about the AirInstinct. 

2) Um. That's it. 

3) Well, you can also enter three additional times, if you're feeling frisky:

    3a) Follow @oreck on Twitter. (Then leave me a comment telling me that you did that.)

    3b) Like Oreck on Facebook. (Then leave me a comment telling me that you did that.)

    3c) Tweet about the giveaway, mentioning me (@amalah) and Oreck and the link to this post. (Then -- wait for it -- leave me a comment telling me that you did that.)

4) Comments will close in seven days, and then I will select a comment using Random.org and email the winner. 

5) Okay, that's REALLY it. Other than the fine print stuff I have to copy and paste now.

The giveaway winner must be a resident of the U.S. 48 contiguous states. Oreck Corporation provided the prize for the sweepstakes but is not the sponsor of the sweepstakes.

Babbyblogging

Aaaaaaaaand...crash.

I woke up this morning and felt it: The last of the adrenaline left my body, probably out my ears and through the spaces in between my toes. You know what I'm talking about. I'm so anti-confrontation (what if the Imaginary Authority Figures shush me for being too loud?) that this week's Unfortunate Unpleasantess kept me amped and on edge for several days and nights, until: BAM. WHOOSH. 

On the plus side, I am no longer stomping around my house, composing endless emails and blog entries in my head or engaging in imaginary arguments with the walls. (Fuck you, walls! Being beige is not an excuse!) I also lost five pounds, somehow. But on the other side, turns out the comedown is a bit of bitch. It's like a conflict hangover that sucks the fluff out of you. Oh, lawndiapers, I know just how you feel.

Also writing kind of not so much with the goodness. Or something. That like.

Which means...pictures! Again! More! Oh, whatever.

SOMEBODY has learned how to play the "SOOOOOO BIG" game.

He's really proud of me. I'm only 34, after all.

Now, here's where I get obnoxious (YOU: OH SO JUST RIGHT NOW, THEN?), but I can't help it! I'm still using this poor old blog as a baby book so I need to write this down: I've mentioned that Ike mimics things we say, and I keep trying and trying to convince myself that's all it is, because...well, come on. He's nine months old, he's not REALLY saying "yeah" when you ask him if he wants more Cheerios. That was a coincidence.

That he did three times. In a row. And then again two days later. Hmmpf. Well.

Other words he's busted out perfectly at the perfect moment, more than once: kick, dog, Dada, and hi. 

And then yesterday, Noah and Ezra were trying to get him to play the SOOOO BIG game with them at breakfast, and singsonging his name over and over again, like they do 25,000 times a day: BabyIke, BabyIke, BabyIke! 

Jason walked in and they turned their attention to him. This displeased Baby Ike. He still had both hands in the air and you simply do not leave Baby Ike hanging like that, bro.

"BABBYIKE!" he shouted, hand to God, clear as day.

I swear all four of us heard and dropped our jaws to the floor. (Well, maybe not Ezra, who doesn't really give a shit what Baby Ike does as long as he's not touching Ezra's toys or any toy Ezra may have ever touched or plans to touch again in the future.) Even Noah lost his damn mind. "Baby Ike SAID HIS NAME! He KNOWS HIS NAME! Because I TAUGHT HIM. Because I'M THE BEST!"

Yes, son, you are. And so is your brother. And your other brother. You're all just so crazy awesome I can't even believe it sometimes. Can you all just get in one big pile so I can snuggle the crap out you guys more efficiently? Thanks.

BABBY IS SO BIG BECAUSE BABBY JUST ATE TWO PANCAKES, A PEAR, SOME BUTTERNUT SQUASH, CHEERIOS AND WOULD IT KILL YOU TO TOP OFF BABBY'S COFFEE ALREADY, LADY?

SO MUCH NON-STOP CRAZY EXCITEMENT, Vol. 2

Fifth disease. Ezra has it.

Now, if you're anything like me (read: insane), you hear the words "fifth disease" and think HOLY SHIT, DISEASE? THE FIFTH ONE? OUT OF HOW MANY? LIKE, ON A SCALE OF THE TOP TEN MOST TERRIBLE DISEASES YOUR PRESCHOOLER CAN GET? 

Not so much. It basically means: He had a cold, and then got a rash. Oh, and it looks like someone backhanded him across the face a couple times. No biggie. 

***

I recently ordered a retractable clothesline for our backyard, pledging to take my dirty hippitude to a new level: I was gonna hang my baby's poop-rags outside to dry, in the sun, in front of God and my dog and the one neighbor who can see into our yard. 

It started out well. It even made Ye Olde Annoying Instagram!

Aw, how pretty! Points deducted for not using vintage upcycled shabby chic wooden clothespins from Etsy, however.

I was only about halfway through the diapers when I posted that, and once I finished I sat up on the deck and admired my obnoxious hipster old-school handiwork. Look at me! I own a perfectly functional electric dryer but no, I am conserving! I am industrious! Fuck you, modern convenience. The old ways really are better when you think about it when we all got our hands dirty and slowed things down and DAMMIT I would so blog about this but THERE'S TOO MUCH SUN-GLARE ON MY iPAD OUT HERE.

Anyway, that's about the exact second when the tension gave out in the piece of shit line and the whole thing collapsed to the ground, taking two dozen freshly-washed diapers with it.

I tried again, after double-checking the instructions -- I mean, this isn't rocket science, right? Extend, wrap thingie around that other thingie, bathe in smug sense of wholesome green prairie-living pride, and...same thing. WHOOSH. Lawndiapers. 

I cursed a bit, collected all the diapers, and shook off some dirt and leaves. 

Then I went inside and put them all in the dryer.

JUST AS THE LORD INTENDED.

***

I have exactly seven minutes to think of a third thing to talk about here, before I have to get Noah at the bus stop. Why do I need a third thing? I don't know. I JUST DO. Even if I tell myself that two is a prime number, just like three and five, it still feels wrong and incomplete. After five things I always feel compelled to keep going until 10, though, so at least I didn't come up with six things to talk about because then my eyelid would get all twitchy. 

***

Wait a second. I can solve that one. The rest of that six-thinged entry would look like this: 

7) Eeek! Eyelid twitch!

8) Explanation of compulsive need for 10-itemed listicle.

9) Vague, nonsensical rantings re: Dave Letterman.

10) Random pet or baby photo. Hooray!

***

Ceiba says 'sup. 

***

OH DEAR GOD WHAT HAVE I DONE

The Subject, She Is Changed

I'm sorry, Internet, were you saying something?

Because we've got a baby in a fucking laundry basket over here.

We've got a baby in a laundry basket WEARING A COMICALLY OVERSIZED HAT, over here. 

Is there another mommyblog on earth that can give you ALL THAT, AND MORE, plus an additional four or five whole totally original sentences? There is? Which... Oh. All of them? Really? 

Well then. Nothing to see here, moving right along.

Good call, Mom, before someone else sees those jeans. 

To Whom It May Concern

Or, Hey Girl, I Heard You Were Blogging My Blogs On Your Blog, And Then Again On A Blog That Paid You To Blog, But You Were Blogging My Blogs And Not Your Blogs, In Other Words Stealing Stuff I Wrote Which I Am Pretty Sure Is Not Cool, Girl

Or, Choice Excerpts From The Most Fun Email I Have Ever Had The Honor Of Writing

Dear You,

Well. It's unfortunate that we had to be introduced under these circumstances. Before I go any further, allow me to tell you a little about myself. I think some of this may be relevant in a bit.

Like you, I married very young -- I was 20 years old at my wedding. Couldn't even drink the champagne! I put myself through college a course or two at a time, while working full-time, until I finally got my degree when I was 27 years old. I started my blog in 2003, when I was 26. I was hired as a columnist for AlphaMom -- my first "real" professional writing gig, when I was 28, right after having my first baby. Holy crap, was that ever a dream come true.

Like you, I have three children now: Noah, Ezra and Baby Ike, who was just born last June. When I was six months pregnant with him, my father died of cancer. I don't mention this to play the Pain Olympics or anything, but since you seem to be bringing up your pregnancy as a sympathy ploy, I do want to say that I DO sympathize with what I'm assuming is your current stress level over this mess.The universe has shitty timing sometimes, and it sucks.

The writing you stole was written about my second pregnancy. It is all very near and dear to me, and I am fiercely protective of it, as I'm sure you understand. What you did was like someone swiping your belly pics and passing them off as their own: creepy, invasive and wrong. I imagine if that happened to you, you would waste no time in leading an Internet charge against that person, no matter what excuses they offered.

So on that note, let's break yours down:

"I started writing a long time ago, when I was young and did first start under not knowing the proper rules. I have no real education in writing and never claimed I did, I just liked to share my feelings and my life with my friends and family."

You use your youth as an excuse a lot. And lack of formal education. However, plagiarism -- passing someone's work off as your own -- is something that most of us learn by the time we turn in our first book report in elementary school. My kindergartner knows that stealing is wrong and that it's important to do your own work. So...sorry. I will not accept that one.

Also, this was happening in 2009. Three years ago. While I don't know the full history of your blog, a quick glance through your pregnancy archive reveals that you were already pretty established -- established enough for your entries to garner double-digit comments and for brands to be approaching you with sponsorship deals and free nursery furniture. Free nursery furniture! That's impressive! Even I've never managed that one. Clearly, despite your youth and educational background you hit the ground running as a pretty savvy blogger who knew how to network and promote yourself.

Which is why I do not buy that you did not understand "the rules." Linking. Quotation marks. That little fancy blockquote button thingie.

And barring that, when your commenters chimed in saying stuff like "LOL YOU'RE SO FUNNY" and specifically calling out jokes and lines THAT YOU DID NOT WRITE, you could have stepped in and say, "Whoops, sorry guys! That line came from this post. I should've linked to it, because I really like it!" 

"I have been recently told that I have plagiarized your whole articles, and never intended to steal anything. I took some great lines and did not cite them, which was a big mistake. I am now just 27 and learning everyday as I grow how to avoid these mistakes in the future. I never meant to hurt anyone or steal from anyone."

Seriously? You needed to be told that you did not actually write the words you published? You did not intend to steal when you plagiarized me week after week, in a variety of different ways? You're going with "I didn't cite properly?" Sometimes you reworded my jokes. Sometimes you took just a line or two and flushed it out with your own writing. Sometimes you just copy-and-pasted the entire thing, whole paragraphs at a time. Once you found out your baby was a girl and mine was a boy, you changed the pronouns and left everything else. This is behavior you know not to do by middle school, if not earlier. The fact that it was on the Internet doesn't mean the rules were any different, and I think you knew that. I think you simply figured you weren't going to ever get caught.

And again, stop with the "I am only 27" thing. It's insulting to people younger than you who absolutely know how to not steal other people's writing.

"I have been going through my blog all day long and publishing my posts and just want to make sure I dont have any other mistakes that will come to haunt me."

I appreciate you taking my writing down. I really do. The thing that still kinda bugs me is that in the end you just took everything down because you claim that you simply can't remember what you wrote...and what I wrote. From three years ago. I am pretty sure someone could put a dozen different articles/blog posts/whatevers in front of me and I could tell you which ones were mine and which ones were not.

"I am 27 years old and have made mistakes. I now feel really bad and almost just want to give up."

Really? You are 27? Huh. Didn't know that. Why do you seem to think 27-year-old women should get a free pass through adulthood? I sense you imagine I am some ancient, over-educated old lady when I'm only a few years older than you with a freaking Bachelor's degree from an commuter/distance-ed college in Communications. At 27 I was a grown-up. And so are you. You are far, far smarter and savvier than you are letting on, or are letting yourself believe.

Read through the emails you have sent to everybody involved in this and count the number of times you bring up your age and being "young" and seriously: Figure out why you do that, and knock it off. It's. Not. An. Excuse.

"I wrote about my pregnancies and never meant to have it backfire in my face. I just wanted to share my joy and I found those lines great, just didnt quite understand the proper rules to citing."

But you didn't technically really write about your pregnancies. You wrote about MY pregnancy. MY joy.

And let's not forget when and where you were ACTUALLY caught plagiarizing: yesterday, three years later, in a paid column at Babble. (Big thanks to alert reader Catherine for the heads' up, by the way.) Presumably, by then, you DID know the rules, yet you posted my words as yours on multiple occasions.

I also write for Babble. Like AlphaMom, I have nothing but wonderful things to say about their editorial guidelines and standards, and the people I work with for who inspire me to write to the very best of my ability. And so I have read the contract you signed. It is very, very clear that you are expected to write your own words, to clearly cite and attribute and link. I'm not entirely sure why you thought it was a good idea to copy-and-paste your own archives as part of a PAYING, PROFESSIONAL JOB, but even assuming that you had cleared that with Babble ahead of time, there's still the little problem that one of the articles you posted there -- the sex & pregnancy one -- was a top to bottom copy/paste job with only a few minor word changes. And I never found that one on your personal blog, and yes, I looked very hard and very carefully. (Which is not being "obsessive-compulsive," by the way -- nice tweet! good call on deleting it, though -- it's called protecting my brand and my writing.)

That's...quite troubling, and negates a lot of your excuses and explanations that you thought you were only technically plagiarizing yourself at Babble. If I am wrong about this, I am sorry, but I still feel like we're splitting hairs here. 2009 vs. 2012. You still stole it, and I cannot honestly believe you're trying to convince me that you simply FORGOT that you didn't actually write a single word of that post.

BTW, you stole an article I wrote about my SEX LIFE. Holy SHIT.

***

Okay, since the rest of your email is pretty much a repetition of your age and how you never "meant" for this to happen, let's move on. I'd like to give you some PR crisis management advice here. From one old, ancient, decrepit blogger to a younger one. Come clean, publicly. Apologize -- to me, Isabel and the folks at Babble -- without any excuses or revisionist half-truths that are easily proven wrong/shady by five minutes in Google Cache or the Wayback Machine. Plagiarism is a big deal, yes, and it is -- often -- a career killer, even for older, educated, established writers/journalists who made one measly little mistake. It's not a question of maturity, but one of integrity.

Yes, I have a very large readership and Twitter following. I sense you didn't know that when you chose my articles to swipe, and I know that you're terrified now of this getting "out" -- I noticed your husband tweeting cryptic messages about sinister Internet stalkers keeping you down, as if he's hoping people will think that's why you were fired from Babble, and play this mess so anyone who dares to say anything is just trying to "ruin" a poor, hard-working 27-years-young (OMG STOPIT) woman. Even though, again, I sense you two would not be nearly so kind to anyone who stole as much as a recipe photo from your blog.

I am not a bully. I am not a mean girl. I have never even engaged in a single Twitter argument with anyone and seriously, Internet drama gives me hives and I avoid it at all costs. I HATE this stuff, really and truly. I have no desire to "ruin" you or send people after you with torches and pitchforks.

However, I am a professional blogger with a brand and a reputation to protect. I am also a person with feelings who writes about those feelings and any and all significant (and insignificant) events in my life on the Internet. You stole -- over and over and over -- MY words, and made money and sponsorships and connections using them. So I will be writing about this today on my blog -- I have every right to, as I'm sure you understand -- and I will NOT be naming you or linking to you or anything.

But this is by no means a get-out-of-Internet-drama-free card. Mostly, I just don't care to send you the traffic. I imagine some people will figure it out. So tread carefully. Don't give the Internet what it wants, which is a drawn-out childish temper tantrum about what counts as stealing and plagiarism and what the definition of "is" is. Own what you did: I stole. I was stupid. I'm embarrassed and I am sorry and hoo boy, I will never, ever do it again. Pledge to earn your readers' trust -- and the trust of the brands and advertisers you attracted using someone else's words -- by giving them nothing but the brutal truth now.

I accept your apology for being very sorry you got caught. I still sense I am owed one for being serially -- and very deliberately -- plagiarized.

Sincerely,

Amy

PS. In the interest of full disclosure and transparency, I should note that some lines have been changed from my original response I sent directly to her, for reasons of timeline clarity or identification purposes.

PPS. And also that my "apology" email contained the following confidentially footer, that I willfully and knowingly ignored while copying-and-pasting her words: This email is intended only for the person(s) or entity to which it is addressed and may contain information that is privileged, confidential, and protected. It is not to be disseminated, distributed, copied, or shared by others. On the plus side, though, I believe I clearly marked her words vs. mine with quotation marks and italics. So. There is that. 

PPPS. OMG THESE POSTSCRIPTS ARE IN ITALICS SO WHO IS TYPING THESE WORDS HOLY CRAP WORMHOLE NOOOOOOO...