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There was a time when I was more giving. More accurately, I was less selective about how and to whom I gave. I was letting a friend come to our house once a week to do his laundry because the machines at his apartment were broken. During his last visit, this dude told me my disability isn’t real. The following week, he couldn’t figure out why I’d changed my mind about him doing his laundry here. I was working full time and both of my girls were in the after school care program at their elementary school. I would pick them up at 5:45, make the 30-minute drive home, and S would immediately jump out of the car, run inside, and poo. I worried about her holding her BMs all day in school and tried to talk to her about it, but she didn’t care: pooing was for the home only, and that was that. I did, however, pack an extra set of undies in her backpack just in case she couldn’t hold it all day and had an accident. As we were driving home, the car started to smell like poop. I asked S if she had another accident, and she said “No, mommy,” but the smell of poop was slowly getting stronger until I was gagging and had to open the windows to get some of the smell out. When we got home, we got out of the car and the kids dropped their backpacks inside and went to get ready for dinner. I opened both backpacks to remove and clean the girls’ lunch bags, and when I opened S’s pack, the smell of poop jumped out at me like an angry tiger released from a cage. I took a look in the big compartment of the pack but nothing was amiss. Then I opened the small zipper compartment and found my daughter’s dirty underpants in a plastic Ziploc bag. And the poop was in the bag, too! The next day when I dropped the girls off for school, I found Ms. L and asked her why she put the poop in S’s backpack and why she didn’t tell me it was in there, and she snidely informed me that it’s not her job to clean up poopy messes. I completely understand that, but why not just flush the poop? Or tell me that she put the poop in the backpack so I would at least be aware? I would think it’s important to inform someone when you send a log of shit home with their kid. But she just repeated that it’s not her job to clean up accidents and that my kid needed to learn to use the potty when she had to poop. I get it – it must suck to have to deal with kids when they poop their pants. And yes, S should have been using the toilet wherever she was when she had to poo, and my kid’s toilet anxiety doesn’t mean a hill of beans to anyone else but me and my husband.

Wrangler America’s Favorite Driver signature shirt

A couple of guests informed me my office was too minimalist and that they expected more things to be hanging on my wall the next time they visited my wife’s and my home. I kinda hope they held their breath while they were waiting for our next invitation. They both went on to backstab me and my wife pretty bad a few years later. Another set of guests tried to squat. I had driven them all the way from Florida to Massachusetts under the impression that they had jobs and a place to live lined up. They offered no money for gas, hotels on the three-day trip, or compensation for the inconvenience and effort. He even tried to weasel out of the dinner he offered as a thank you by forgetting his wallet. The dude got me off the streets years ago and I wanted to pay him back in some way, but my wife and I were in no position to have extra residents in our home. We just don’t have the room or money. I made all of this VERY clear and told my old buddy that we could only house them for a couple of days max. There are MANY other details, but the disrespectful thing my former friend said was wordless. As I was kicking them out and they were angrily loading stuff into my car to bring them anywhere but here, my buddy left his gigantic knife right in the center of my wife’s desk. Like that was supposed to make us change our minds and let them stay? In the days of dial-up, I had a family call and not be able to get through because we were online. They decided to show up unannounced. They literally caught me in my underwear as they were let into the apartment before I could even react to being rudely surprised. Some of my family members have a history of abuse, violence, and stalking, something at least one of the visitors, my mother, was quite aware of since she lived through it with me. Her tagalong friend decided to put in her two cents and tell me I should get a call waiting or a second line because they were trying to call me. That did it! I suddenly forgot I was just wearing underwear and angrily asked my mother’s friend if she was paying my phone bill. My mother-in-law, stepfather and mom’s friend beat a hasty retreat and NEVER did the pop-in ever again.

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Now in my country, the sort of Satanists we have are not adorable, benevolent types found in Europe and America who just claim to practice this religion for shock value or as a protest against mainstream religious thinking. The ones in our country drink human blood, have sexual abuse rituals of children and animals, and even commit murders to use body parts for potions or to eat human flesh. It’s not uncommon for a child walking home from school to be bludgeoned to death then be found dead with missing body parts; our prisons have a number of practitioners who committed these sorts of crimes while professing satanism. Westerners would say these are just mentally ill people, but none have been proved incompetent to stand trial; some are politicians, teachers, and other respectable professionals. Africans know why I’m talking about. My high school best friend had, among other things, seen chopped up human legs in her rural village hidden under a bed since her grandmother was involved in the practices. So I knew I was hearing something quite concerning. She appeared withdrawn and sad all the time, my son said she’d cry for no reason. I felt the signs indicated some type of abuse was going on and both her and her mother might have been victims judging from their oddly withdrawn behaviors and blank stares. I told the teacher what my son had said. Within days of being confronted, the parents of this little girl had removed her from the school and we never saw her again. If she survived this childhood, she’d be 22. I often think back with guilt at my decision to tell my son to avoid her, but then again he was 5 years old and I was a young mother protecting my son. I truly wish I’d been more nosy and done more since the school simply didn’t bother to do anything to help her, confronting the parents without the presence of authorities to investigate if the child was safe. Only 1 incident comes to mind. It was during the summer and mother dropped me off at my aunt’s house cause she was going somewhere for the day. My aunt had no kids of her own but her husband had weekend custody of his 2 kids. Up till this point only adults( mother, her drunk friends and Mr. had ever seen me nude. Objecting didn’t help, so we stripped. Then we were all marched over to the garden hose and hosed off. Before we could go into the house till our clothes had been washed and dried.

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