Fan Friday—Brock the Rapist


Oh, yes, I’m going there. Along with everyone else.

But here’s my question:

What about his mother? We haven’t heard a peep. Dad, yes; what an ass. But where’s Mom in all this? I think I might know something about that. Read on:

Dear Carleen—

I know this is your baby boy. And I know it’s hard. I’ve been there, in a way.

Welcome to reality.

As parents, we all like to think our kids are special or outstanding, and many of them are, in the eyes of the world as well as in our own. But our kids aren’t extensions of us, they are their own individuals. They will do what they’ve been taught, or sometimes they’ll do the opposite.

In your case, however, having read your husband’s statement, it sounds an awful like Brock was taught how to be a douche.

I didn’t teach my kid to be the way he is—you see, my son is a felon too. He was in trouble a lot, some of it legal trouble, before that felony was committed. And he always got off with a slap on the wrist. When he was finally taken down to juvie, I told the judge, when asked, that I couldn’t make the decision for my son to stay or to come home.

This was my boy, but he was violent and unpredictable and it was frightening. I didn’t know how else to answer the question, I just wanted my boy back, the real one, the one who was funny and sarcastic and had a lot of plans for his life.

So the judge sentenced him to three weeks. I doubt he has ever forgiven me for that. He was in and out of a few county jails before the “big one,” always just a slap on the wrist for misdemeanors, and then finally, it happened.

Felony charges and prison time. He was sentenced to four years for breaking a glass door at closed service station. Four years. He was out in a few months, forever changed and unable to do many things a non-convicted person is allowed to do.

Am I happy about that? Of course not! But this was something HE did, not me. If I could change it, I would, but this was the result of HIS choices. No one wants her son to be a felon.

I’ve never been the kind of mother who thinks her child is always innocent, and I know my kids are better adults because of that. If my kids were/are wronged, I’ll be the first one raising hell; but first, I’ll check the facts. I’m good at that.

I feel horrible about my son. I wish it wasn’t like this. I’m sure you feel the same.

But there’s a big difference between feeling and action. Your husband—I can barely manage to get the words out, but his letter was just SO MUCH BULLSHIT. And you, you haven’t refuted a thing, you haven’t commented on that at all. Or, for that matter, on any of this.

I just can’t help but think maybe, just maybe, you’re seeing your husband for the ass that he is and that you’re making plans to dump him. Because really, Carleen, what self-respecting person would allow another to speak for her in such a way? No, this isn’t because you’re a woman—I get all that “stand by your man” stuff, but this is just plain wrong.

Your son was wrong. You can still love him. You can still support him and try to help him, even knowing what he did. But to allow someone else, husband, father, whoever, to say that your poor boy has no appetite for snacks is just complete lunacy. To allow the phrase “20 minutes of action” to describe a violent and brutal rape, spoken or written by your partner, without comment, is simply sick.

Maybe you’re undergoing treatment and went away somewhere. I don’t know. No one seems to know. But I think I can speak for nearly everyone and say that unless you step up and speak up and distance yourself from this ass you’re married to, you’ll be forever painted with the same brush:

An absolutely terrible human being with no thought for that poor girl at all—a selfish person, with only a thought for the perpetrator of the crime, your son.

Sincerely,

A Mom

 

 

Work Wednesday—Bathroom Remodel Part II


Sunday, my husband started more bathroom destruction: the removal of the giant corner jetted tub. Now, it might be nice to have now and then, but it’s a real PITA to clean—not to mention getting in and out. Plus, it takes up a lot of room and collects dust and tools and parts.

And the cat. He’s going to miss it . . .

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So we decided to remove the wide ledge at the back of the room, but left the other one on the east side. At press time, the cat is still trying to figure out why his dish moved and how he can reach it . . .

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The next step was rebuilding the walls; fortunately, we have all the old cherry that he pulled off the outside of the tub, and of course, after that, a new tool is needed for the edges of the sill.

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Off we went to the city.

About halfway down the state highway, the car dinged and it took me a minute to realize it was NOT the “change oil” ding, which sounded a couple days ago, but the YOUR ENGINE IS SERIOUSLY OVERHEATING ding.

Pulled off the road onto a farm lane and shut down the engine.

We were weighing our options when a pickup slowed and turned around. Brent offered to run home and get a couple gallon jugs of water, which we accepted, and then chatted with us for a bit while the car cooled down.

He also gave us recommendations for two local mechanics, told us he knew exactly where we lived, having known the previous owner some time back, and told us about the downfall and history of the little ‘burg nearby—actually, literally, a wide spot in the road.

He even offered us a ride, if the car wouldn’t make it either direction.

Finally we decided to go back home and grab the truck and go get a new whatchamacallit. You know, the thing that regulates the radiator pressure. The words, Robin, use the words!

It took us a bit to get there, though. We drove a few miles, the gauge went up. We stopped. We drove again, the temperature rose. The last stop seemed to do the trick—we made it 10 miles and the gauge stayed right where it was supposed to be.

Must have hit a rock or a pothole just right . . .

Well, I elected to stay home after this and finish up some trimming in the orchard.

Guess we’ll have to put off tiling the bathroom floor until tomorrow.

Oh, darn . . .