I never meant to be a stay-at-home mom.

I never set out to be a stay at home mom.  In all honesty, I never thought I’d be anything more than a secretary, but I at least thought I would always have a job.  After partying my way through my freshman year in college, my mother told me that she and my dad weren’t sending me back for a second year.  

“A girl doesn’t need a college degree anyway.”

So at 19 I began working as a secretary and that was that.  But after five years of working in clerical jobs - secretary for a pompous old insurance broker, receptionist for a group of psychiatrists, billing clerk for a property management company - I needed to find something else.  

I had briefly dated a guy who was in the Army.  After a weekend spent at the base where he was stationed, I thought, “Wow, this military life doesn’t seem so bad.”  After a particularly boring morning working as an accounts payable clerk, I paid a visit to an Army recruiter on my lunch break.  Of course he made the Army sound like the bomb diggity.

Three weeks later I was on a plane for basic training.  I had chosen to train to be a psychiatric specialist, thinking that it was something I could also do as a civilian when I got out of the Army.  There were a few other . . . unforeseen challenges let’s say, that I had not considered.  The first was that working on a psych ward, while being far removed from secretarial work, wasn’t exactly more fun.  More exciting at times, sure.  But putting a patient in four-point restraints does not really equate to “fun.”

The second challenge that came to define my time in the Army was an injury obtained in basic training that, in the end, not only made it impossible for me to stay in the Army because I could no longer run, but also made me a disabled vet for life.  

I met my husband, Mike, while I was in the Army.  He got out of the military a year after we got married and immediately started college.  I worked - as a secretary, of course - while he was in school.  After graduation, he received a commission in the U.S. Air Force.  When we moved to his first Air Force assignment, I planned to get a job.

You guessed it - as a secretary.  I was 31-years-old by this time and my greatest skill was my 85-wpm typing speed.  But Mike saw things differently.  He told me that it was now my turn to go to school.  

“I am not smart enough to finish a college degree.”   I truly believed that.  After nearly failing out of college as an 18-year-old, how could I possibly finish a degree in my thirties, especially with two preschool-aged children to take care of?

But start school I did.  My initial goal was to get an associate’s degree.  I figured I could probably handle that.  The first few classes I took were basic computer courses that I breezed through fairly easily, which got me thinking maybe I really could finish a bachelor’s degree.  After a year of easy A’s, and a lot of encouragement from my husband, I made the leap and entered into a human resource bachelor’s degree program.

It was around that same time that I started having problems again with the service-connected foot injury and was bumped up to 30% disabled with the VA.  As such I was eligible to apply for the VA’s Vocational Rehabilitation program.  I took all of the aptitude tests they required, met with a counselor who determined that I was, in fact, capable of completing college.  The whole process was a bit comical to me because I already was attending college full-time, maintaining a 4.0 GPA.  When the final decision was made to accept me into Voc Rehab, which meant that the VA would start paying for my tuition and books, as well as pay me a monthly subsistence while I was in school, I was told that they wanted me to get a computer degree because that was where I had scored highest on their aptitude tests.  The problem was that I didn’t want a computer degree.  I wanted, and had already started, a human resources degree.  So the gentleman I met with at the VA Regional Office told me that they would agree to pay for my HR degree if I would agree to also get a computer degree.

“So you’re saying that you’d rather pay for me to get TWO degrees instead of just the one HR degree?”

The answer was yes.  I was in shock.  Just a little over a year earlier I had been convinced that I wasn’t smart enough to finish anything beyond an associate’s degree and now I was going to take on a double major.

What had I got myself into?

But I tackled it with no small amount of cockiness.  Every new “A” I received convinced me even more that I truly was smart.  I was capable. I was relevant.  I was so much more than just a secretary.  

For the next year, going to college was my job, and I excelled at it.  But as I approached my last year of school, I realized that we would have to leave North Dakota, where we were stationed at the time, and move on to Mike’s next Air Force assignment a full year before I was to graduate.  There was no guarantee that the next base we went to would have a local school offering the same two degree programs.  It was a hard decision to make, but Mike chose to volunteer for an assignment in Korea.  It was a one-year unaccompanied tour, which meant the kids - now aged 4 and 6 - and I would stay in North Dakota for the year that he was overseas.  It allowed me that extra year I needed to finish my degrees.  I wasn’t happy about the separation; none of us were.  But I loved my husband so much for being willing to make that sacrifice for me.

In July 2001 I finished college, graduating summa cum laude with a 3.94 GPA.  I’d done it!  A week after I finished my last class, Mike returned from Korea, we packed up and moved from North Dakota to North Carolina.  I was going to get the kids started in school and then I was going to go out and find my career.  

I was ready, and I was excited.

Less than six weeks after Mike signed into his new unit two planes flew into the World Trade Center towers, while another hit the Pentagon and a fourth crashed in a field in Pennsylvania.  All plans for a career were destroyed.   Mike deployed a month later.  He would deploy two more times in the three years we were in North Carolina.  As much as I wanted a career, being home for my kids after school, giving them that one guaranteed point of stability, was more important.  

Looking back, life seemed to suddenly shoot into fast-forward after 9/11.  Mike deployed three times in three years.  He was gone so much, our son Keeghan asked one day, “Why doesn’t Daddy want to be with me?”

In 2004 we (blessedly) left North Carolina and headed to Texas where Mike had been accepted into a two-year master’s degree program.  No deployments for two years!  We were thrilled!  As soon as the kids started school, I applied for a job with a large insurance company in San Antonio and was almost immediately hired.  I wasn’t going to be working in the human resources department as I would have liked, but at least it was a foot in the door with a good company.  It would give me some much-needed work experience to support my education (I hadn’t worked since 1999 when I quit working as a secretary to focus on school).  

Again with the life-in-fast-forward.  I worked for a year and a half, quitting when we were a few weeks out from moving to our next assignment in Washington, DC.  A month after I quit working, Keeghan was diagnosed with cancer.  He was ten-years-old.  Our daughter, Mackenzie, was 12 at the time.  

Two brain surgeries.  Thirty-two radiation treatments.  Nearly two and a half years of alternating between living in hospitals and shuttling back and forth to chemo appointments, all the while homeschooling both children because we couldn’t have them around the germs of a full classroom.  The career I had hoped for had morphed into something entirely different.  My career now was as teacher, patient advocate, nurse, doctor, mom.  It may not have been a job that paid well, but it paid in ways that can’t be measured by most.  It allowed me to spend the last two years of my son’s life with him, 24/7.  That is priceless.

Keeghan died in 2008, a full seven years after I had finished college.  In that seven years, I had worked for less than two.  As soon as he died, my “job” in life was just keeping it together.  Keeping my 14-year-old daughter who had once told her little brother, “If you die Keeghan, I will have to kill myself because I can’t live without you” alive.  Keeping my marriage from completely folding because the weight of grief was so heavy.

I won’t lie, I remember very little about the first two and half years after Keeghan died.  I was treading water in an ocean of tears.  Mike was still active duty in the Air Force, Mackenzie was attending a public high school, and I was home wondering what to do with my life.  

In 2011 Mike got orders to go to Okinawa, Japan.  That assignment was the catalyst I needed.  It got me to a new place, away from family and friends who did more to make the grieving worse than they did to help.  In Okinawa I found an international women’s group to get involved with, eventually holding two positions on their Board of Directors.  Ironically, one of the positions was as Secretary.  My forever curse.  But I learned in working for that group that I was still capable of working, of doing something well.  When we found out in December 2012 that Mike had been selected for a squadron commander position in California, I knew it was time.  Time for me to finally get out and find a job.  Mackenzie would be starting college in California.  There was no reason anymore for me to be a stay-at-home-mom.

Which brings us to now.  I am a 47-year-old woman with two degrees - degrees that, for the record, I kicked ass at - but still . . . two degrees that are 12 years old, with less than two years of paid work experience to support.  I’ve been applying for jobs for two months now and have received nothing but replies of “does not meet minimum qualifications.”  Admittedly, I am in a somewhat remote area of California, so jobs within a reasonable commuting distance are not abundant.  But I cannot describe how much it pains me to apply for a Department Assistant position, nothing more than a GLORIFIED SECRETARY JOB, and receive an email back saying, “Unfortunately, we are not moving forward with your application at this time. We encourage you to visit our career site at blahblahblah . . .” from a human resource assistant.  

Don’t just stab me, why not twist the knife a little while you’re at it?  

I should be working in the human resource department somewhere, and instead I’m being turned down for secretary jobs by one.  My resume full of volunteer positions is probably a source of great amusement for these people who have been fortunate enough to work.  People who probably think I’ve led a pampered life.

I never meant to be a stay-at-home-mom.  I never meant to be nearing 50 and unemployed.  Unmarketable.  Unworthy.  Considering the way our family’s life went, I wouldn’t change anything.  But still . . . I’d like a chance to prove myself now.

Parenting 101 - Love Your Children Unconditionally

I’ve often wondered how we managed to raise such a smart daughter.  She is so much smarter than I ever was at her age.  She makes good choices.  She has good friends.  She loves deeply and honestly.  

She and I had a conversation recently about some of the other girls her age that we know who are so eager to be in relationships.  Girls who think having sex on the first date is normal.  Girls who feel like their life is incomplete if they don’t have a boyfriend.  

I was one of those girls.  Started dating a boy at age 14.  Believed him when he said we’d be together forever, making choices that I was so not ready for.  When that relationship ended, I spent the next few years feeling like I was un-lovable.  Then came the years of going from one relationship to the next, hoping every time that this would be the one to love me enough to marry me.  When one finally did want to marry me, I jumped at the chance only to find out he really wasn’t Mr. Right.  

It wasn’t until I learned to love myself that I was open to accepting that someone else could love me as well.

So as M and I discussed why she is so different, why she doesn’t feel the need for a boy in her life constantly, we figured it out.  She loves the person she is already.  She doesn’t need someone else to make her feel loved.

And why is that?

Because we’ve always loved the person she is, and we’ve told her so.  We’ve always allowed her to be her own person, shaping herself in her own way, but always with us as the safety net to catch her when she falls.  Because she knows what unconditional love is, she knows what she wants in a relationship and is willing to wait for it.

How amazing is that?

It’s a rare thing for me to pat myself on the back for anything, but this time I feel it is in order.  Mike and I raised an amazing young woman.  We had no clue what we were doing, but we still managed to get it right.

Go us!

Talk Talk Talk

I think everyone has something that they would like to change about themselves.  Some of us have many things we’d like to change.  My list would probably fill a legal pad, but most of my “fixes” are either impossible (be taller) or out of my price range (tummy tuck/face lift/boob job).  There is one thing on that list, however, that is well within my capability to fix - for free! - and yet I just can’t seem to fix it.

I talk too much.

I know it is true because I’ve been told it my entire life.  Parents, sibling, teachers, bosses.  

“Shannon, be quiet.”

“Do you ever shut up?”

“Shannon is a talker.”

“How do you ever get anything done when you’re always talking?”

My husband is a talker also, but not nearly as bad as I am.  When we were first dating, a friend of ours asked how we ever managed to get a word in.  

::insert eye roll here::

In my 46 years of being told I talk too much, I’ve probably made 46,000 vows to stop doing it.  I’ve failed every single time.

I tend to be at my chattiest when I am in social situations with people I am unfamiliar with.  I’m not the most social person to begin with.  I like being in my own home, with my husband and daughter, maybe a couple friends over for drinks.  I’m chatty then, but not the full on diahrrea-of-the-mouth as my mother used to call it.  But put me in someone else’s house, with people I’ve never met, and I become so hyper-aware of feeling like an outsider that I start to talk.  Incessantly.

I bring up this whole topic because I did it last night at a new friend’s house.  I had met one other person there, but I didn’t really know her.  Everyone else was new to me.  So what did I do?  

Talk, talk, talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk . . . talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk . . . talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk talk . . .

The worst part about it is the talk-hangover I wake up with the next day.  The feeling of embarrassment because I yammered on and on all evening.  The brain pain from trying to remember everything I said.  The dread that I now feel over seeing any of these women again because of my embarrassment, which is made worse by the fact that a couple of them work in the same building as my husband.

Yes, I know.  I’m probably over-thinking it.  It doesn’t matter though.

Vow 46,0001 has now been made.

Words are . . .

Words are my friend.

I misuse them sometimes though.  I guess that happens in any friendship at times.  The trick is to learn from the experience and not do it again.

I’m a slow learner . . .

Words are weapons.

I have handled many weapons in my life.  I’ve learned to shoot a number of different firearms as well as a bow.  I’ve even thrown a live hand grenade (only once though, and because I didn’t throw it very far, I was never allowed to throw one again).  But words are my weapon of choice.

I do not deal well with confrontation.  I was never a fighter as a kid.  But I learned the power of the proper use of words early on.  Back then it was my diary that caught the brunt of my rants.  I could tear a person down to nothing with just my pen and paper.  Even though the object of my anger never read those words, I always felt better once I got them out of my head.

As a teen I learned the power of positive words.  First love provided me with the opportunity to use words to convey happiness, share the love I felt - so young and vulnerable - with someone else.  Oh, how I loved writing those letters!

And then words hurt me.  The song is right - breaking up really is hard to do.

Words of sadness.  Words of anguish.  Words of apology.  Pathetic, groveling words.  And then words of anger, this time actually shared.  Words that can never be taken back.

For the first time words were used as a weapon against me.

I lost my ability to write for a number of years.  At the time I was young and carefree, experiencing life on my own for the first time, so there was no need for rants, no love letters to be written.

Unless you count that one time . . . does taking a red pen and correcting a letter from a particularly annoying man count as using words?  After mailing the letter back, I never heard from him again, so it had the desired effect.

Words are love.

Love was what got me writing again.  Love letters to the man who would become my husband, and then even more letters after we were married since his job takes him away often.  Such treasures those letters are!  I have jewelry that is kept in a shoe box, but those letters are kept in the safe.

Words are therapy.

Then the Internet came along and words became so much more dangerous.  In the beginning it was a private blog, a place to write about good days and bad.  A place to rage when I was mad at my boss, or sing the praises of my obviously gifted and brilliant children.  I found a few women there to share experiences with, women who to this day are so very important to me.  It was a place to unload all the words jumbled in my head without any chance of hurting anyone.  Free therapy.

I began a public “blog” when my son was diagnosed with cancer.  It wasn’t a blog so much as a mental dumping ground.  Nothing was written with the intent of triggering a conversation like my old blog entries were.  This was a place to inform those who cared, but more importantly, to rail at the universe over the atrocities raining down on my child.  It was a place to say all of the things I couldn’t say out loud.

After his death I found Facebook.  Oh how I wish I could go back to that day and make a different choice.  I joined just to see what all of the hubbub was about.  For months I didn’t use it at all.  Then I began using it as a way to connect with the teens from our homeschool group who came to my house once a week to build a yearbook.  Within a year I was using it to stay connected to friends.  Then came family, high school friends, army friends, college friends, other cancer parents.

The ability to immediately reach a large audience with a few short words killed my will to sit down and write.  The problem with writing only a few words at a time, however, is that true meaning is never reached.  You cannot understand what is in a person’s heart, what the meaning behind the words are, when there is nothing more than a sentence.

People got hurt.  Me.  Them.  Everyone.

Words were a weapon again, albeit an accidental one.

So I went back to my rants.  The problem with rants on Facebook is that there are too many things to rant about!  It is a virtual diarrhea of the mouth.  One small comment, probably meant to be funny, ends up angering someone.  Differing opinions on politics, religion, parenting . . . you name it.  All of it causes rants in my head.  The bounce around in there, wanting to get out.  Sometimes for days before I finally say “screw it” and download it all to the screen, my fingers the conduit.  Oftentimes my high-speed fingers still can’t download as fast as my mind wants them to.

When it is finished, I feel better.  But because Facebook is not the place for that type of writing, I think I leave everyone rolling their eyes.

“There she goes again!”

“Oh god, Shannon’s ranting.  Again.”

“Great, what now?”

I get that though.  I kind of feel the same way about myself.  Because Facebook isn’t a blog site.  It shouldn’t be a weapon, an easy passive-aggressive way to lash out.  “Unfriending” shouldn’t be a weapon used to hurt others.  Especially not by adults.

It’s time for Facebook to go back to being what it started out as for me - a virtual address book.  That place where I could go to see where everyone is at, maybe say hi occasionally, have a frivolous conversation.  Not a place to be angered, and if there are people there who cause anger, they need to be removed.  Just as a name in an address book can be erased, so should those who bring anger, insult or pain into my life.

Words are a lesson, and it’s time for me to go back to school.

Thanks . . . not.

23 years and this is the thanks we get.

My husband, Mike, is a Lt. Colonel in the United States Air Force.  He's given the U.S. military 23 years of his life.  He's deployed 5 times since 2001, missing birthdays, holidays, anniversaries.  But we've never complained.

I'm complaining now though.

You see, we have pets.  One dog and one cat.  We are currently stationed at Kadena AB in Okinawa, Japan.  Getting said dog and cat here two years ago was difficult - especially considering the fact that we had to be here less than two months after Mike returned home from his 4th deployment - but we did get here with Ceili and B.B. (dog and cat respectively).

Now we are leaving Japan, headed for Edwards AFB in California where Mike will be taking on a new duty - Squadron Commander.  But we are running into problems getting  Ceili and B.B. back.  It seems that the Air Force doesn't set a high priority on getting family pets moved along with their humans.

I get that.  The military pays to move us, not our animals.

But here's the thing . . . they allowed us to come here with pets.  ALLOWED.  Now, as we try to plan flights to move back home, we're being told things like, "We can get you on a flight from Okinawa to Narita (Tokyo), but it's a 50/50 chance that you will be able to get the animals on a flight from there to LAX."

50/50?  So what happens if we can't get the animals on a flight?

:: crickets ::

No answer.  Are we supposed to just leave them?  Or leave one family member while the rest of the family continues on?  What kind of answer is that?

Now, let me tell you a little something about these two pets.  B.B. is a 12-year-old cat.  He belongs to our 19-year-old daughter.  She "saved" him from what was (in her 7-year-old mind) "certain death" in a North Dakota pet store in 2001.  Certain death because he had extra toes and was different, which meant no one would want him if she didn't take him home and love him forever.

So of course, that is exactly what she had to do.

Ceili is special also.  Not because she is our family pet, or because of what breed she is (chocolate lab, just so you know), or because she's a bit of a diva.  Not because of any of those things.  Ceili - pronounced Kay-Lee - is special because she is Keeghan's dog.  Keeghan is our son.  Keeghan is special too.  Keeghan should be a passenger on the flight back to the States with us.

Instead, Keeghan is a carry on.  Or at least his ashes are.

Keeghan should be 17-years-old now, but he was diagnosed with a brain tumor just a few weeks after his 10th birthday and died when he was 12.

Keeghan always wanted a dog.  Soon after he was diagnosed, in a fit of paranoid mother panic, I told Mike that we had to get Keeghan a dog because I didn't know how things were going to play out, and I didn't want my son to die never having experienced having a dog of his very own.

It was a good idea because Keeghan and Ceili just clicked.  Boy and dog were a great team, even if they only had 16 months together before Keeghan left us.
 
Ceili is 6-years-old now and is the one living connection that my husband, daughter and I have to Keeghan.  She is more than the family pet.  She's his.

But she's only that important to us.  She's not important to the Air Force.  She's not important to the airlines.  Fine.  But why - WHY? - if we were allowed to bring her here, is it so difficult to get her home.  Why are these things made so difficult for military members?  Why, when they give so much to their country are things made so difficult for them?

We're not asking for anyone to pay to move our pets.  We know that is our responsibility.  We just want some assistance.  Is that too much to ask?

The Milestone I Never Wanted to Reach

So many painful milestones face you when your child dies.  The obvious ones - his birthday, Christmas, Halloween.  Annual events that you must learn to face, to get through with some semblance of keeping-it-together.  Then there are the single milestones that he’ll never reach - learning to drive, prom, high school graduation.  The ones that you know when they should have happened.

In a perfect world . . .

As time goes by, I am finding that there are other milestones that are even more painful because you don’t expect them.  There is no bracing for the pain. 

We have moved twice since Keeghan died.  Because of that, I now know people who never knew my son.  But few people who know me for more than an hour remain ignorant to the fact that I have a son, and that he died.  I am not quite as in-your-face about letting people know as I was in the first couple of years after his death, but if someone asks me how many children I have, I tell them.  Two.  The fact that one is no longer living does not make him any less my child.

What took me by surprise, however, was finding out that someone I know and talk to fairly often didn’t even know what my son looked like.  I know, weird.  Why would she?  She’s never been to my house to see his picture on the wall.  I don’t carry his picture around and show it to everyone I meet.  As silly as it sounds, I guess subconsciously I assumed that anyone who had ever spoken to me about him would somehow see him in their mind’s eye as I see him.  Vibrant, beautiful, alive. 

The other shock came from the realization that she might not know his name.  Don’t people automatically know both of my kids’ names?  If they know Mackenzie’s name, shouldn’t they know Keeghan’s also?  For so many years, when referring to our children, it was always “Mackenzie and Keeghan.”  But that isn’t the case anymore, at least not in the minds of those who never knew Keeghan.  But I didn’t realize that.

It’s hard reaching these milestones.  Facing the fact that there is a lifetime ahead of me of meeting people who will never know him.  A lifetime of reacting to the gut punch of realization that comes with the reaching of these milestones.  A lifetime of knowing that there is a huge part of me missing, but only those who knew me before his death will even realize it’s not there.  Some spark of the old Shannon, the one who was whole, that is gone.

These milestones are like another death, one with no ceremony to mark its passing.  Only more tears.

It's good to be me.

It's been said - quite recently actually - that maybe I shouldn't put my personal information out for the world to read.  An interesting thought I guess.  Let's look at it for a minute.

I live a very transient life.  In the past 20 years I have lived in seven different states and three different countries.  In those 20 years I have met a lot of people that I want to stay in touch with.  In 1992, staying in touch meant actually writing letters, but that was ok.  I was willing to take that time so as not to lose touch with the people who were important to me.  In 2012, however, it is much easier.  As much as I complain about it, Facebook is a great place to stay in touch, especially now that I live half way around the world.  I use it to keep in touch with family, friends from high school, college, the Army, and past places we have lived.  But a major part of my friend community there are other mothers of children with cancer.

During the time that Keeghan was in cancer treatment - from 2006 to when he died in 2008 - my "support" community consisted almost exclusively of family members and close friends.  I made a few acquaintances at the hospitals where he was treated, but they weren't part of my support team so much because they were going through their own cancer nightmare.  After Keeghan died, I floundered for a while.  A lot of our family were having their own hard time dealing with his death and were unable to be fully there for me.  I get that.  Everyone was hit in their own unique way by his loss.

Then I found 46 Mommas.  Joining that team of other cancer moms was probably the best thing I could have done for myself because it gave me a community of people to talk to about cancer, people who didn't shy away from the subject.  They didn't refer to it as "the c-word."  I could say whatever was on my mind to them and know that they would speak when I needed words, and just listen when I didn't need words.

The problem with the 46 Mommas is that they are spread out all over the United States.  While there are some of them that I know I can pick up the phone and call at any time, I can't do that with all of them.  So I use Facebook.  That means that all of my other, non-cancer friends see those conversations.  I don't mind that though.  I realize I could filter those posts, but if you are my friend, I don't care if you see my cancer-related discussions, and honestly, if they bother the non-cancer friends, they can hide those posts.

So what has brought about this topic anyway?  Someone in my family who I love very dearly called me today to say she is being sent for tests because the doctors think she might have cancer.  I was very upset by this news (understatement of the year).  So I posted on Facebook because I wanted . . . needed . . . to talk about it.  I needed to unload.  I did filter the post though because I had not had a chance to talk to my daughter about it, and she deserved to not find out that news from her Facebook News Feed.  I asked people not to say anything to her yet also.

Someone who I had forgotten was even on my friend list on Facebook decided she had the right to criticize me for putting personal information out for "the whole world" to read.  Of course, this person doesn't have the brain cells to realize that "the whole world" I told was no more than my own small group of friends.  A group that she had not earned the right to be included in, but I did include her because she sleeps with my half-devil-spawn of a brother, who also really never earned the right to be included in my "friend" list.  I've since remedied that problem though and removed the cancer that is them from my virtual world.  And by comparison, the number of people I received support from - which is really all I was looking for today - far outnumbers the douchebag and her false-sense of superiority (for the record, I thought about looking up a more mature word than "douchebag" but sometimes douchebag just . . . fits).

Here's the thing though . . . why do people feel they have the right to criticize what others do online anyway?  As a means of keeping in touch with a lot of people quickly and easily, Facebook is a great tool.  But there is always that one person who is not happy unless they are stirring the proverbial shit pot.  The person who thinks they are so far above everyone else that they have the right to pass judgement.  It taints the whole potential-goodness of a social community.  The only thing I can think in situations such as this is that that person must not have very much love in their life, that they must be SO unloved that they cannot stand seeing someone else who is loved.  It must be sad to be so jealous of someone else that they have to lash out like that.  Methinks they must have lacked the motherly love that I had as a child.  But I really have only one reaction to it.

Sucks to be them, and it's good to be me.

Love!