Martini Mom

One year. No new clothes. For realz.

2012-01-24T08:00:00.000-08:00

There's no denying that we are a society of rampant consumers, gobbling up more and more disposable goods, chewing on them ever so briefly until the luster just begins to wears off, before spitting them into the trash like chewing gum that's lost its flavor. We are insatiable in our lust for the bigger, faster, shinier versions of the things we already own; proclaiming our "need" for the new iWhatever because ours is white and the new model is black. We waste valuable resources to manufacture New, while the dumps overflow with perfectly functioning Old.

Frankly, we should be ashamed of ourselves.

At least, I'm ashamed of myself. Which is why I've decided to conduct a little experiment to see what will happen if I restrict myself from buying any new clothes for an entire year.

One year. No new clothes. No new jewelry. No new shoes. No new accessories.

Here are the rules (and, ahem, the exceptions):

New means new. Thrift store finds are still acceptable.
As are homemade items.
And gifts.
Though lobbying for gifts is not.
Replacing an item that has bitten the dust is okay, so long as I first try to replace it with something that already exists in my closest or, failing that, try to find it second hand. If both these fail, I let myself off the hook for that particular item and can buy a new replacement. So, for example, if the heel breaks off my favorite pair of black Mary Janes, I will "replace" them with one of the other several pairs of black heels already in my closet, even though (gasp!) none of the others have an ankle strap. I know. The horror.
If the need arises for an item I don't currently own, I can buy new so long as I first attempt to find it used. For example, I have no snow gear. Should we get hit with another snow storm, I can buy myself some damn boots.
Should I need replacement underwear, I am allowed to buy new. Period.
Bras count as underwear.
Impractical lingerie does not.
I will post everything I buy here, so you can call me a cheater.

To be clear, it's not purchasing needed items that I find problematic (hence the "exceptions" at rules #5 and #6). Nor do I find anything at all distasteful about the occasional frivolous treat. It's the reflexive purchasing, the (literally) buying into planned obsolescence, the "occasional" frivolous treat that happens so often as to no longer be a treat but a habit, the confusion of the meaning of want with the meaning of need.

Mindful consumption.

That's what this challenge is about. (Also? Less laundry.)

Effective now – actually, retroactive to January 1 – the pledge is on! Here's hoping none of my friends throw a fancy party worthy of a new dress until 2013!

Christmas in January

2012-01-13T11:47:00.000-08:00

This is something of a belated post, obviously. But had I published it prior to Christmas as originally intended, I wouldn't have been able to tell you about the Christmas surprise. So there. Poor time management for the win!

Every year since we split, I've gotten the The Ex a Christmas gift.

I don't mean that I assist The Kid in getting his dad a Christmas gift (though I do that too). I mean I get my ex-husband a Christmas gift. From me. Every. Single. Year.

It's nothing big or fancy or, God forbid, personal. It's just a book. And not even a passive aggressive book carefully selected to point out one of his personal flaws that I think needs fixing. Just a book I honestly think he might enjoy. Over the years, I've introduced him to Tom Robbins, Douglas Adams, Orson Scott Card, Charles Bukowski, and non-fiction that isn't about World War II.

The gift-giving wasn't an intentional decision. It just sort of happened the first couple of years after we split, mostly out of habit I guess. But I kept it up, because I realized a few things:

It stops – even if only momentarily – whatever disagreement we might be having. The book is a tangible reminder (just as much for me as for him) that I don't think he's a total douche bag, despite indications I may have given to the contrary. For a minute every 25th of December, we smile at each other and mean it.

It's nice for The Kid to see. When The Ex and I split, I was fiercely adamant that The Kid never have to deal with our shit. We've been pretty successful there, but "not dealing with our shit" is a pretty low bar. I think it's nice for The Kid to see us go beyond that, even to the point of being (gasp!) genuinely nice to each other.

It makes me dislike The Ex less. As far as divorced parents go, we actually get along pretty well. But we do argue, and sometimes it can get pretty ugly – and those ugly parts make up the bulk of our interactions. (Because when things are going well, we don't actually talk a whole lot. There's no reason to, beyond the standard pleasantries during pick-up and drop-off.) So the ugly times – the arguments about child support and video games and whether or not Gatorade and crackers "counts" as dinner – become the only times we spend any real time together. That can leave me with the perception that The Ex is more of a douche than he really is (see point #1). But picking out a gift for him forces me to think about him as a person, not just my ex-husband. And it is SO much easier to show empathy, compassion, and patience to a person than to a former spouse.

It's been therapeutic for me over the years – an annual detox of sorts, serving as a reset button that wipes the slate (mostly) clean. Christmas certainly isn't the only time we're nice to one another, but it is – for me, anyway – a clear reminder to step back from whatever anger might have built up over the year and to forgive, as well as I can.

This year's ritual came with an extra surprise: for the first time, The Ex returned the favor gave me a gift. A thoughtful gift, even: a book that is right up my alley and that I'm excited to read.

While it never bothered me in the past that he didn't reciprocate (gift exchanging former spouses are hardly the norm, after all), I have to admit that it was nice to receive as well as give this time around. Not for the book itself (though that's nice too), but because of what it symbolizes. This is a forced relationship he and I are in. It's not one that we would choose to continue were it not for the benefit of our son. But since it is for the benefit of our son, we WILL be civilized, respectful, and friendly.

And books, it turns out, make excellent peace pipes. Especially when they're puff-puff-passed back.

Excerpt from a love story, nerd edition

2011-12-13T13:41:00.000-08:00

From a Gmail chat, circa 2008

Me: "He argued with me over every single piece of data... er... datum, I guess."

The Man: "I love that you know the singular form of data."

And then they lived happily ever after.

It's the small things, people.

Truth in advertising

2011-12-09T00:39:00.001-08:00

"Yes," says the Okie in the dining room. "This is an accurate depiction of what everybody in Oklahoma looks like."

"That's how we get around there."

"Twirling."

"Trough the air."

"Under our hat-copters."

Boobs for Babes: Giving a big FU to the big C

2011-11-05T09:00:00.000-07:00

Nearly 14 years ago, my mom and one of her coworkers were diagnosed with breast cancer within a month of one another. The two women shared an oncologist, similar prognosis, and nearly identical treatment plans. Both underwent radiation, chemotherapy, and radical mastectomies. And both were given a clean bill of health at the same time. But today, my mom is alive and Carmen is not.

Carmen's cancer came back, metastasized to her brain. Multiple surgeries and endless treatments later, Carmen's husband and daughter watched her slip away. Her daughter was less than 10-years-old when Carmen died. She had spent years of her young life watching her mother's losing battle.

That's some fucked up shit right there.

But it's hardly a unique story. It's estimated that about 12% of women (approximately 1 in 8) will be diagnosed with breast cancer in their lifetimes. The diagnosis comes with a 22.8% mortality rate. Along with my mom, my aunt has been forced to undergo the boobie knife. So has my great-uncle. (That's right. My great-uncle.) My cousin was diagnosed shortly after her youngest child was born.

That's some more fucked up shit right there.

I don't like fucked up shit, so when fellow West-Seattlite, Joslin Bernard, asked me to help promote Babes for Boobs, I was more than happy to do so. Joslin, along with her sister Darci, founded Babes for Boobs in honor of their mother, a breast cancer survivor. They gathered together a group of Northwest women in 2010 - most of whom have been affected by breast cancer in some way - to create a 2011 calendar with the help of photographer, Derek Johnson. They're currently busy with production of their second calendar (2012, obviously) - again partnering with Johnson - which will be available in time for the holiday season.

A couple teasers/out takes:

Model Shannon, photographed by Derek Johnson

Model Joslin, photographed by Derek Johnson

To support the cause and give a big middle finger to breast cancer, "like" Babes for Boobs' Facebook page, share with your friends, and keep your eyes peeled for calendar purchase information. You're definitely going to want these beautiful babes and their beautiful boobs hanging on your wall.

Bad omen

2011-11-04T15:18:00.000-07:00

My lip balm smells like Suzie.

Suzie was a doll I had when I was very young. She was one of those plastic dolls you could fill with water and then squeeze to make her pee. My mom used her as a potty-training tool for me. I would fill Suzie with water, say "Suzie pee pee!", walk her to the toilet to do her business, and then reward her with an M&M (which I would eat for her). I loved Suzie and her magical ability to land candy in my mouth.

Since she was so water-friendly, Suzie often joined me in tub for bath time, where she was encouraged to pee on my head and rinse the shampoo from my hair. The only problem was that, while Suzie's body was hollow plastic, her head was not-hollow plastic.

I don't know exactly what her brains were made of, but after years of deep-water diving, Suzie began to take on an odd smell. I was old enough to know that the foul scent meant something had gone horribly wrong, but I was young enough to not be in the least bit grossed out by it. I did my best to keep the stench hidden from my mom, whom I was certain would do unspeakable things to Suzie should she be made aware of the situation.

Eventually, though, she got a whiff. Assuming it was Suzie's clothing causing the odor, my mom stripped her of her offensive wardrobe and I quickly shoved naked - and still stinky - Suzie into my pillow case under the guise of keeping her warm while her clothes her washed.

After that close call, I had one final glorious week with Suzie before my mom discovered that it was her, not her clothing, that was so noxious. With disgust spread over her face, she yanked Suzie's head from her torso and exposed the lumps of black mildew filling her skull. I never saw poor Suzie again.

Probably not a good sign that my lip balm smells like her.

A hungry child can't wait: Ask 5 for 5

2011-09-21T09:00:00.000-07:00

Guest Blogger: Sarah Lenssen from #Ask5for5
Family photos by Mike Fiechtner Photography

Thank you Martini Mom and nearly 150 other bloggers from around the world for allowing me to share a story with you today, during Social Media Week.

A hungry child in East Africa can't wait. Her hunger consumes her while we decide if we'll respond and save her life. In Somalia, children are stumbling along for days, even weeks, on dangerous roads and with empty stomachs in search of food and water. Their crops failed for the third year in a row. All their animals died. They lost everything. Thousands are dying along the road before they find help in refugee camps.

At my house, when my three children are hungry, they wait minutes for food, maybe an hour if dinner is approaching. Children affected by the food crisis in Ethiopia, Kenya, and Somalia aren't so lucky. Did you know that the worst drought in 60 years is ravaging whole countries right now, as you read this? Famine, a term not used lightly, has been declared in Somalia. This is the world's first famine in 20 years.12.4 million people are in need of emergency assistance and over 29,000 children have died in the last three months alone. A child is dying every 5 minutes. It it estimated that 750,000 people could die before this famine is over. Take a moment and let that settle in.

The media plays a major role in disasters. They have the power to draw the attention of society to respond--or not. Unfortunately, this horrific disaster has become merely a footnote in most national media outlets. News of the U.S. national debt squabble and the latest celebrity's baby bump dominate headlines. That is why I am thrilled that nearly 150 bloggers from all over the world are joining together today to use the power of social media to make their own headlines; to share the urgent need of the almost forgotten with their blog readers. Humans have the capacity to care deeply for those who are suffering, but in a situation like this when the numbers are too huge to grasp and the people so far away, we often feel like the little we can do will be a drop in the ocean, and don't do anything at all.

When news of the famine first hit the news in late July, I selfishly avoided it. I didn't want to read about it or hear about it because I knew I would feel overwhelmed and uncomfortable. I wanted to protect myself. I knew I would need to do something if I knew what was really happening. You see, this food crisis is personal. I have a 4-year-old son and a 1 yr-old daughter who were adopted from Ethiopia and born in regions now affected by the drought. If my children still lived in their home villages, they would be two of the 12.4 million. My children: extremely hungry and malnourished? Gulp. I think any one of us would do anything we could for our hungry child. But would you do something for another mother's hungry child?

My friend and World Vision staffer, Jon Warren, was recently in Dadaab Refugee Camp in Kenya--the largest refugee camp in the world with over 400,000 people. He told me the story of Isnino Siyat, 22, a mother who walked for 10 days and nights with her husband, 1 yr-old-baby, Suleiman, and 4 yr.-old son Adan Hussein, fleeing the drought in Somalia. When she arrived at Dadaab, she built the family a shelter with borrowed materials while carrying her baby on her back. Even her dress is borrowed. As she sat in the shelter on her second night in camp she told Jon, "I left because of hunger. It is a very horrible drought which finished both our livestock and our farm." The family lost their 5 cows and 10 goats one by one over 3 months, as grazing lands dried up. "We don't have enough food now...our food is finished. I am really worried about the future of my children and myself if the situation continues."

Will you help a child like Baby Suleiman? Ask5for5 is a dream built upon the belief that you will.

That something I knew I would need to do became a campaign called #Ask5for5 to raise awareness and funds for famine and drought victims. The concept is simple, give $5 and ask five of your friends to give $5, and then they each ask five of their friends to give $5 and so on--in nine generations of 5x5x5...we could raise $2.4 Million! In one month, over 750 people have donated over $25,000! I set up a fundraiser at See Your Impact and 100% of the funds will go to World Vision, an organization that has been fighting hunger in the Horn of Africa for decades and will continue long after this famine has ended. Donations can multiply up to 5 times in impact by government grants to help provide emergency food, clean water, agricultural support, healthcare, and other vital assistance to children and families suffering in the Horn.

I need you to help me save lives. It's so so simple; here's what you need to do:

Donate $5 or more on this page (http://seeyourimpact.org/members/ask5for5)
Send an email to your friends and ask them to join us.
Share #Ask5for5 on Facebook and Twitter!

I'm looking for another 100 bloggers to share this post on their blogs throughout Social Media Week. Email me at ask5for5@gmail.com if you're interested in participating this week.

A hungry child doesn't wait. She doesn't wait for us to finish the other things on our to-do list, or get to it next month when we might have a little more money to give. She doesn't wait for us to decide if she's important enough to deserve a response. She will only wait as long as her weakened little body will hold on...please respond now and help save her life. Ask 5 for 5.

Thank you on behalf of all of those who will be helped--you are saving lives and changing history.

p.s. Please don't move on to the next website before you donate and email your friends right now. It only takes 5 minutes and just $5, and if you're life is busy like mine, you probably won't get back to it later. Let's not be a generation that ignores hundreds of thousands of starving people, instead let's leave a legacy of compassion. You have the opportunity to save a life today!

He's one

2011-08-29T13:20:00.000-07:00

The minutes defy their 60-second confines. The swollen hours haltingly circle the clock.

Tick.

And then, some days later: Tock.

The days stretch like taffy from one fleeting slumber to the next.

Until one morning you wake up and, rather suddenly and completely without warning, he's one. Somehow the plodding individual moments of 365 torpid days have coalesced into a year that raced past in a heartbeat.

In the blink of an eye.

In the change of a diaper.

He's one.

Wishing it all away

2011-08-11T18:45:00.000-07:00

The Man took a long weekend to go to Dallas and visit his girls. He was gone for five days. For three of those days, The Kid was also gone, which left me to handle The Baby all by my lonesome. Naturally, The Baby saw fit to develop a fever and become a never-sleeper.

As luck would have it, I also had a fair amount of editing work to complete during The Manless days. And then, just to make things extra challenging, I was offered the community manager position with a Seattle startup. It's part-time, work from home, and a great opportunity, so I was thrilled. I might have even jumped up and down a little. But I agreed to start working right away and, on top of my other part-time, work from home, great opportunity editing job, I was also a bit overwhelmed.

And because I was on solo duty with The Baby, it was all too obvious just how much easier this would be if The Baby was just a little older. Old enough to know not to eat dead flies; old enough to not stick his fingers in outlets; old enough to not try to dive head-first into the toilet. Maybe even, gasp!, old enough to be in school for part of the day.

If only he was just a little older...

I lamented this too when I realized that I was almost going to have a weekend to myself. One that, before The Baby, would've meant I could go out with girl friends, read a book, order take out that The Man doesn't like, stay up late watching a movie that The Man doesn't want to see, and sleep diagonally across the bed. All. Night. Long.

"If only he was a little older," I thought, "I could send him to my mom's for the weekend and I could have one of those weekends."

If only he was just a little older...

Normally I have a very strict policy against such thoughts. I don't like to spend any amount of time wishing away my baby's baby years - years that I'll be no doubt wishing for as soon as they're over.

But last weekend, amidst the fever-induced screeching and the refusals of sleep and the foiling of a movie night and the working until 4 in the morning; between the constant tugging of little fists on my jeans and the chubby arms extending in anticipation of ascension; through my bleary eyes and utter exhaustion, I wished - hard - for him to be just a little older.

...ain't nothing but mammals

2011-08-06T23:44:00.000-07:00

Via I Love Charts

Late last week, with the sun finally shining in Seattle, I took The Kid and The Baby for an outing. We were gone for hours - longer than I'd expected - and we all got hungry. The food court sated The Kid and I but The Baby needed to nurse, so we wandered off to find a relatively quiet spot where The Kid could run around while I tended to The Baby. We found a play area with a bench nearby and settled in.

Now, since we were in public (and my bench was situated adjacent to a fairly well-used path), I pulled a blankey out of the diaper bag to drape over one shoulder and cover The Baby's head as he nursed. I'm perfectly comfortable with my boob hanging out, but it tends to be frowned upon. I was trying to be polite. But The Baby HATES any sort of nursing cover. After several attempts to nurse discreetly, I gave up and put the blanket back in the diaper bag. I figured I gave it a shot, I tried, and who the hell cares, anyway? He's a baby + he's hungry + I'm his mom = boob. Plain and simple. I'm far more interested in keeping him comfortable while he nurses than forcing his head under a blanket in order to keep total strangers comfortable.

Plus, we were at the zoo. And I ask you: what more appropriate place for a mammal to nurse her young than the zoo?

One young couple, tattooed and pierced, smiled comfortably at me when their toddler shouted, "THAT BABY EAT FROM HIM'S MAMA!" But the slightly older couple behind them, wearing polo shirts tucked into their Dockers and completely devoid of anything so interesting as permanent body ink, scowled briefly before apparently finding something reeeeally interesting on the ground to stare at.

Honestly, I wish I'd had a camera to record the reaction trends by demographic:

Suburban-looking minivan types (admittedly, a subjective measure): Disgust mixed with embarrassment
Men (except for that one whose toddler called me out): "What? No. Huh-uh. I didn't see anything. Nothing at all. Hey, bushes! Look at these bushes. These are amazing bushes! I will never look at anything ever again because these bushes are the most fascinating things on the planet. A woman breastfeeding? No, honey, I didn't even notice because I was looking over here at these bushes which are nothing at all like boobs."
Teenagers (of the female variety): "Oh. Em. Gee. Dubya. Tee. Eff."
Teenagers (of the male variety): "Boobs! But ew. But boobs! But ew."
Preteens (of either variety): a level of mortified embarrassment that only exists in the puberty-afflicted.
Kids: totally cool with it, every one of 'em.

It's almost as if we're born with enough common sense to understand that eating is a basic necessity, even for babies, even from boobies... and then taught to believe otherwise as we age. Wouldn't you agree?

This marks the end of World Breastfeeding Week, and I did my part by continuing to nurse my baby wherever and whenever he needed, despite dirty looks. You can read my ranty breastfeeding post from 2009 - one of the most popular posts on this blog OF ALL TIME - here.

Perfectionist, paralyzed

2011-08-03T15:50:00.000-07:00

I am a planner, a trait that usually serves me well. I'm also a perfectionist, which is another trait that usually serves me well. But when you put those two things together, you end up with a plan that's never quite good enough. And if your plan's not good enough, it certainly can't be acted upon, right?

And now you know why my house is in the state it's in.

It was something of a fixer-upper when I bought it, and I had some grand plans. I also had a baby. And then a divorce. And then the limited income (and even more limited time) of a working single mom. And as the years marched by my something of a fixer-upper turned more and more into a regular ol' fixer-upper. Nothing major. Nothing structurally unsound. (Except, possibly, the front porch. And the rotting garage. And I'm pretty sure there's some rot in the bathroom floor.) There are so many things to be done, but I don't know where to start because I can't start on one project before I figure out precisely how it will affect all the other projects and I can't start on anything before I know precisely how I'm going to accomplish every single related task and I can't make a small decision now because what if I discover that it affects a larger decision down the road and maybe I should've gone with black instead of copper and oh my god somebody make me stop.

It doesn't have to be this hard. I should just pick something and start. It doesn't have to be the "right" thing (especially since it all needs to be done so anything on the list is a "right" thing). And yet, I'm stuck. I sit and ponder, hem and haw, pick something, change my mind, pick something else, and never actually get around to starting anything. Gah!

Until it finally occurred to me that this is no different than the writer's block that comes at the beginning of a project. Not the "I don't have a damn thing to say" writer's block (in which case I generally opt to say nothing and go to the park instead where, inevitably, I find something to talk about), but the block that comes from knowing what you want to say and not knowing howto say it; the one that comes from staring at that intimidating blinking curser poised at the beginning of a blank document. The beginning is way too hard, way too stressful, waaaaay too much pressure. At the beginning, you have to have some idea of what path you're on, some idea of whether you should turn left or right when you come to the fork in the road. But the middle? The end? Those are easy. You've already forked.

I'm TERRIBLE at beginning new writing projects, which is why I always end them first. Or middle them.

I launch straight into what usually becomes the third paragraph or even the conclusion. And I launch into the middle of that paragraph, not bothering to worry about the proper introduction to my thought. In fact, I often launch into the middle of whatever sentence I'm writing. Almost always, the first thing I write in a new article is an ellipsis:

"...which, incidentally, is severely lacking in bacon."

Which, more than likely, will become the middle of a sentence in the middle of a paragraph in the middle of the article. And that works great.

So why not with my projects too?

With that in mind, I've given up deciding where it makes the most sense to start, and I'm just diving in. Starting today, it's one step at a time, one decision at a time, one piece of one project at a time. To begin, I purchased a piece of artwork for The Baby's room with only a vague idea of how to coordinate it with the rest of the decor. I have no idea what complementary artwork will surround it. And, as it turns out, I'm okay with that. It's one step closer to checking off "Finish the Nursery."

Flying Elephant, by cocodeparis

This is the (finally!) beginning of good things.

Comparison shopping

2011-08-01T00:27:00.001-07:00

I have had many conversations with The Ex about food as relates to our son. Many, many conversations. During the first couple of years after we split up, the primary message was this: Remember to feed The Kid.

Because he had a habit of forgetting that minor detail. Often.

Eventually The Ex got remarried. And while I have had plenty of issues with his new wife, it hasn't been all bad. Thanks to her influence, my child now gets three meals a day when he stays with his dad. But he also still gets a lot of processed food heavy on the high fructose corn syrup.

And this, I fear, is not going to change. Nutrition is one area where The Ex and I are in complete disagreement (I'm a whole foods kind of gal and he thinks all that healthy food talk is hippie bullshit). And I have to be okay with that. Much as I'd like to, I don't get to dictate The Ex's grocery selections.

Instead of fretting (much) about things I can't control, I fret about the things I can. In this case, that means I spend a fair amount of time teaching The Kid about good food choices. Lately we've been talking about "real" food vs. "fake" food. I've had him read labels of various food options to see that a) some "foods" contain very little food, and b) many foods that appear to be healthy are actually full of sugars and preservatives. Last week we conducted a little experiment and compared the ingredients of some "real food" foods with their "fake food" counterparts. Here's what we found.

The maple syrup in our fridge: 100% pure organic maple syrup

Mrs. Butterworth's Thick and Rich Syrup: high fructose corn syrup, corn syrup, water, salt, cellulose gum, molasses, potasium sorbate (preservative), sodium hexametaphosphate, citric acid, caramel color, natural and artificial flavors

The wheat cider bread in our pantry: course whole wheat flour, apple cider, wheat berries, unbleached white flour, filtered water, sesame seeds, honey, molasses, sea salt, yeast

Orowheat 100% Whole Wheat Bread: whole wheat flour, water, sugar, wheat gluten, yeast, extract of raisins, salt, wheat bran, cracked wheat, molasses, soybean oil, calcium propionate (preservative), sodium stearoyl lactylate, mono- and diglycerides, calcium sulfate, honey, soy lecithin, azodicarbonamide

The sliced ham in our fridge: ham, salt

Oscar Meyer Deli Fresh Honey Ham: ham, water, honey, salt, sodium lactate, sugar, sodium phosphates, sodium diacetate, sodium ascorbate, sodium nitrate

The lemonade in our fridge: water, lemon juice, organic evaporated cane juice

Lemonade flavored Capri-Sun: water, sugar, lemon juice concentrate, citric acid, potassium citrate, natural flavor, vitamin e acetate

The peanut butter in our fridge: organic dry roasted peanuts

Jif Creamy Peanut Butter: roasted peanuts, sugar, molasses, fully hydrogenated vegetable oils (rapeseed and soybean), mono and diglycerides, salt

...and now I have a kid who will absentmindedly read the list of ingredients on the cereal box while he munches away at breakfast. My job here is done.

The Kid and I have been up to a lot of hippie bullshit these days. We're currently half-way through a week-long carbon cleanse and blogging about it at Green Legume. Pop over if you're interested.

10 posts for 10 years: Day 10

2011-07-24T23:38:00.000-07:00

In honor of The Kid's 10th birthday, I am republishing some of my favorite Kid-related posts. Ten posts for ten years. This one is a more recent post than the ones I've been reposting. The older posts were reflections on what a magical little boy he was. This one is stands as testament to the magical little man he's become. Enjoy.

ABOUT A BOY

(Originally published 11.11.10)

He stumbles into the kitchen, arms loaded with an assortment of action figures, video games, and a teetering pile of books. I look over from the dinner I'm preparing, startled by the commotion. A shy smile plays across his small face. "We can set up a table outside and sell these to people who walk by," he suggests quietly, hopefully.

I suggest a local upcoming toy swap for the video games; a trip to the used bookstore for a trade on the books. These, I know, will grant him a better return on his items than a yard sale. But, no, he insists. He doesn't want to trade for new toys, new games, new books. He wants to earn money. He wants to earn money to give to me. He wants to help pay the mortgage, buy the groceries. "I am a part of this family. I am a part of this house," he proclaims. "I want to help."

I gaze at him, amazed. My eyes drip tears into the cooking pasta. I can't speak, so I wrap my arms around him and mumble unintelligible love into his ear.

I try to gently talk him out of the yard sale all night, careful not to hurt his feelings with what might appear to be an unappreciative refusal of his offer. I try to guide him into other, more appropriate ways he can help: cutting back on wasted food by eating what's on his plate without complaint, calming my stress levels by picking up after himself, remembering to turn out the lights when he leaves a room.

But The Kid is determined. "This is my mission," he tells me."This is the only way I know how to help. And I'll be bummed if no one buys this stuff, or if I can't make enough money, because I do not want to fail you."

How do I tell him that the pile of possessions he's volunteered to sell represents so much more than the $2 he's likely to earn at a yard sale? How do I tell him that I can't possibly accept his earnest offer? How do I tell him how much the gesture is appreciated? How do I tell him how proud I am of him? How do I tell him how much he warms, and simultaneously breaks, my heart?

As many of you already know, I lost my job yesterday. I work(ed) for a small company; one with little in the way of benefits. I was completing month three of my unpaid maternity leave, scheduled to return to work in early December. The Boss called yesterday and told me not to bother coming back. He's decided that the woman I trained to cover my position in my absence is a better fit for the company, and sees this as "an opportunity for a smooth transition." There are many things I could say about the circumstances surrounding my termination, but I won't

Because this post isn't about me. It isn't about my lost job, or my former boss, or my financial worries and woes, or how in god's name I'm going to get by. This post is about the miraculous little boy who lives at the end of my hallway. The one who continually surprises and impresses and humbles me. The one who has given me so much more than I deserve in this life. This post is about him.

Relive them all:

Day One - video of a 5-year-old Kid covering Nirvana
Day Two - learning to fall
Day Three - a Mother's Day poem
Day Four - sarcasm
Day Five - little ladies' man
Day Six - desirable mate traits, according to The Kid
Day Seven - on temper tantrums and kidney stones
Day Eight - on dude love
Day Nine - on haircuts and freckles
Day Ten - you're already here, silly!

Ten posts for ten years: Day nine

2011-07-22T23:28:00.000-07:00

In honor of The Kid's 10th birthday, I am republishing some of my favorite Kid-related posts. Ten posts for ten years. Enjoy.

COMPLIMENT?

(Originally published 3.13.09)

"Mom, I wish you would grow out your hair like it was when I was little."

"How's that?"

"It was way longer. I liked it better."

"How come?"

"It made you look prettier."

"Really?"

"Yeah, because it covered up all of the freckles on your back."

"I see."

"And when you would lean forward, it would cover up the freckles on your face."

"Uh huh."

"I mean, you're still pretty. You're just A LOT prettier without all those freckles."

Relive them all:
Day One - video of a 5-year-old Kid covering Nirvana
Day Two - learning to fall
Day Three - a Mother's Day poem
Day Four - sarcasm
Day Five - little ladies' man
Day Six - desirable mate traits, according to The Kid
Day Seven - on temper tantrums and kidney stones
Day Eight - on dude love
Day Nine - you're already here, silly!
Day Ten - about a ~~boy~~ little man

Ten posts for ten years: Day eight

2011-07-21T22:50:00.000-07:00

In honor of The Kid's 10th birthday, I am republishing some of my favorite Kid-related posts. Ten posts for ten years. Enjoy.

MY SON IS IN LOVE WITH AN OLDER MAN

(Originally published 7.17.09)

The Kid is madly, head over heels in love. With my boy friend.

He was, I think, 3-1/2 when they met. The Man came by the house for a visit, and The Kid was immediately all smiles and desperately wanted to invite him into his play. Too shy to ask The Man directly, his timid whisper landed in my ear instead.

"Will he play with me?"

We were working on overcoming The Kid's shyness, and so I gently encouraged him to ask The Man himself. The Kid meandered around the subject, passively describing his games, waiting for The Man to ask to play. When that didn't pan out, he mustered all his courage, glanced hopefully at The Man, and pondered: "I wonder who can play with me..."

The Man took the bait.

They spent the evening playing some sort of chase game with an imaginary bear. They built a mock campfire from Easter grass. They ran up and down the hallway with imaginary guns, The Kid making some sort of respectable explosion noises and The Man, ever the pacifist, "bloop bloop bloop"ing along behind him. (Because his gun only shot blueberries. Duh.) When I tried to play along, The Kid made it perfectly clear that my presence was not particularly desirable.

Later that night, nearing bedtime, the three of us gathered on The Kid's bed. The Man and I chatted while The Kid ricocheted between us. One over exuberant lunge went awry and sent The Kid's head on a collision course with the foot board, and I wasn't close enough to save him. I had one horrified second to imagine the sound of the impending thud before The Man's hand appeared, casually even, and gently directed The Kid's noggin into safer waters.

It had been a sudden movement on The Kid's part; one that shouldn't have given non-parental types a chance to react. And yet The Man anticipated it with the same ease as did I, already attuned to my child's spastic movement patterns.

I won't lie: I fell a little harder for him in that moment, with that single simple gesture.

Four years later, The Kid still reminisces about playing the bear game and cracks himself up describing The Man's Monty Python-esque displays of terror. It was love at first sight for him too.

After that fist night, The Kid started talking about The Man as if he was part of our family. And the more he saw of The Man (which really was not a lot) the clearer it became that The Man was leaving a gentle but persistent impression on my little one's heart. He started including The Man in his bedtime love fest: "I love mommy and daddy and all my grandmas and grandpa and The Man and Uncle Moose." When we made Christmas ornaments for family gifts, he saved the best ones for The Man. And there were smaller, odder things too. He pointed out every white Prius he saw, because that's what The Man drives. And he always noticed when The Man got a hair cut.

As sweet as this was, it was also troubling. He and The Man only hung out a few times, but The Kid was hooked. And The Man and I were not dating. We were in love, and I have to imagine that part of The Kid's reaction to The Man was actually a reaction to the changes he saw in me when I was around The Man. But we were not dating. And I had to continually explain to The Kid that we were not going to get married.

But still The Kid insisted that every other guy I dated was only a boy friend that I liked a lot, but that I didn't love. Not like I loved The Man.

And he was right. Little shit.

When things came back together for The Man and me, I was nervous about telling The Kid. I didn't want him to get his hopes up when I wasn't even sure that I should be getting mine up. But I never got the chance to tell him. He figured it out for himself. And he was elated. He began referring to The Man as his Second Best Dad.

With The Man about to move in with us, we've done a lot of talking about a lot of things. Of course, at the top of my list of concerns is how a new man in the house will affect my boy. My boy who is already - and has always been - so attached. So we've talked about expectations and about what we want these relationships to look like; what I want, what The Man wants, what The Kid wants, even what The Ex wants. But really I only have one question.

Will The Man ever be able to love my son as much as my son loves him?

I think I already know the answer to that question. It's in all the little things he's done over the years, even from this distance. So many little things, so many little ways.

Like how sincerely he shared my enthusiasm when I proudly announced that The Kid was really getting this whole reading thing; how disappointed he was to not be able to witness it himself.

Like happily attending The Kid's soccer game, even though it interrupted one of our all too short visits, and shouting his encouragement from the sidelines; like taking The Kid out back afterward to kick the ball around some more.

Like wishing he was around to teach The Kid to play guitar.

Like two nights ago, when he obsessively scoured Craig's List for sold out Social Distortion tickets for The Kid.

Or like at the end of the concert conversation, when he signed off with this: "I love you. Please tell The Kid I love him too."

I won't lie: I fell a little harder for him in that moment, with that single simple gesture. Again. And so did The Kid.

Relive them all:
Day One - video of a 5-year-old Kid covering Nirvana
Day Two - learning to fall
Day Three - a Mother's Day poem
Day Four - sarcasm
Day Five - little ladies' man
Day Six - desirable mate traits, according to The Kid
Day Seven - on temper tantrums and kidney stones
Day Eight - you're already here, silly!
Day Nine - on haircuts and freckles
Day Ten - about a ~~boy~~ little man

Ten posts for ten years: Day seven

2011-07-20T16:02:00.000-07:00

In honor of The Kid's 10th birthday, I am republishing some of my favorite Kid-related posts. Ten posts for ten years. Enjoy.

WHAT TO EXPECT WHEN YOU'RE EXPECTING

(Originally published 4.30.07)

There are all sorts of parents and doctors and child development experts (and even more people who've never raised a child or gone to med school or studied child psychology) who will tell you that the quickest way to break a child of any given undesirable behavior is to ignore it. By this, of course, they don't mean that if your child has taken to lighting small animals on fire, you should simply turn away and wait patiently for the phase to pass. In that example the proper reaction is obviously to grab the nearest fire extinguisher and repeatedly beat your child about the head with it. And then call a fireman to rescue the flaming cat.

If, however, your child believes - as they all do at some point - that the best way to ask for a piece of candy at the grocery store is to throw his small body on the floor and howl, and then kick over an entire Cheese-It display, and then dangle limply from your arms as you try to force him to stand on spaghetti legs, and then scream in terror as you drag him out of the store making every other shopper wonder if you've not just snatched him from the cart of his rightful mother - well then, in this case you should ignore the little brat's behavior and continue on with your shopping as if nothing were amiss. Within a few minutes time, they all agree, your child will realize that he has nothing to gain from his behavior, and he'll suddenly stand up straight, adopt a proper English accent, and invite you to join him for a spot of tea and crumpets.

These people have never been exposed to the likes of my child.

At about 6 months, The Kid (then known as The Infant, naturally) abruptly decided that he no longer liked sleeping in his crib, but would instead prefer to spend his nights being perpetually rocked in the comfort of his mother's arms. Many, many, many long nights ensued of repeatedly rocking The Infant to sleep, gingerly positioning him in his crib, and delicately creeping out the door - only to have him start awake and launch into wails of abandonment. After buckets of tears (his and mine), shrieks of frustration (his and mine), a string of sleepless nights (his and mine) and dreams filled with candy canes and gum drops (his soundly sleeping father), I decided in exhausted desperation that I was ready to do the unthinkable: let The Infant cry it out. The crying-it-out is supposed to last for a couple hours at most before the offending baby either gives up or falls asleep from the exhaustion of having just cried for two hours. But those babies are wussies. The Infant obstinately dug in his heels and cried - nay, SCREAMED - for 9 hours straight, and he only stopped after the 9 because by then it was morning and I had to get him up to take him to daycare. And that was just the first night.

If he was that good at 6 months, I'm sure you can imagine what's come with 5 years of diligent practice. The boy is a temper tantrum genius. Thankfully, they don't come as often at 5 as they did at 3, but every once in a while he'll whip one out, dust it off, and give it a leisurely spin around the block just to make sure he's still got it. Tonight is one such night and so I sit, fuming silently in the dining room whilst my child fumes far less silently in his bedroom. It will ebb and flow, but it will last all night, and, much like a kidney stone, no amount of ignoring it will help it pass any more quickly.

Relive them all:
Day One - video of a 5-year-old Kid covering Nirvana
Day Two - learning to fall
Day Three - a Mother's Day poem
Day Four - sarcasm
Day Five - little ladies' man
Day Six - desirable mate traits, according to The Kid
Day Seven - you're already here, silly!
Day Eight - on dude love
Day Nine - on haircuts and freckles
Day Ten - about a ~~boy~~ little man

Ten posts for ten years: Day six

2011-07-19T16:04:00.000-07:00

In honor of The Kid's 10th birthday, I am republishing some of my favorite Kid-related posts. Ten posts for ten years. Enjoy.

WHAT A GIRL WANTS

(Originally published 8.13.07)

Depending on his mood, The Kid is sometimes for and sometimes against the idea of a step-dad (or, as he refers to it, an "X-dad"). He brought the topic up last night as I was tucking him in, and requested that I not add a step-dad into the mix any time soon because he already has "a mom, a dad, and an x-mom and that's already too much." I assured him that there are no step-dads anywhere on the horizon. He got very thoughtful for a moment and then decided that a step-dad would be acceptable - fun, even - under very specific conditions. It seems that there are certain qualities any step-dad candidate should possess and, really, The Kid's not too far off base:

"He should have a heart." At first I thought The Kid had turned sentimental, but then he followed up with this: "And eyeballs. And a chin, because I saw a guy at the fair with no chin, and he was weird."

"He should be kind of skinny, and he shouldn't be too tall because then it's too hard to kiss him. And I know one thing: you like to kiss."

"He should not do wars. That's an important one. You should write that one down. And he should not punch or be mean. Or yell. Because then he'd be like this: 'HELOOOOOO!!!' all the time. And that would be weird. And then when the guy says 'you can kiss your wife now,' he'd be like 'OOOOOOOOKAAAAAAAY!!' and everyone in the church would be like 'What's that guy's problem?'."

The Kid cracked himself up with that one, and we both giggled for a while at the idea of living with someone who shouted everything he said.

"He should not snore. I don't want to have to listen to that through the walls at night." I didn't think it appropriate to point out that there are much worse things for children to hear through the walls of their parents' bedrooms.

As for interests and hobbies, The Kid was full of suggestions:

"He should be able to sing, or play guitar or something. And he should like to play with us and laugh with us and be funny. He should know how to read, especially bed-time stories. He should like to cook with us when we have our cooking nights. And he should be smart and know things that we don't know and then teach them to us."

And - with a wisdom beyond his years - this is what he ended with:

"But mostly, he should just make you feel happy. So go on dates with him before you marry him to make sure he's a good one for you."

Relive them all:
Day One - video of a 5-year-old Kid covering Nirvana
Day Two - learning to fall
Day Three - a Mother's Day poem
Day Four - sarcasm
Day Five - little ladies' man
Day Six - you're already here, silly!
Day Seven - on temper tantrums and kidney stones
Day Eight - on dude love
Day Nine - on haircuts and freckles
Day Ten - about a ~~boy~~ little man

Ten posts for ten years: Day Five

2011-07-18T15:15:00.000-07:00

In honor of The Kid's 10th birthday, I am republishing some of my favorite Kid-related posts. Ten posts for ten years. Enjoy.

LITTLE LADIES' MAN

(Originally published 1.08.06)

Some of my friends like to tell me that my son's a little girly. While I agree that he's certainly in touch with his feminine side, it takes only one quick peek inside his toy box to see he's also very much in touch with his truck-driving, gun-shooting, sword-wielding, super hero masculine side. So I gently correct "girly" to "well-rounded."

Yesterday required some birthday shopping for a girlfriend of mine, and I had no choice but to drag The Kid along. Generally, he actually kind of likes shopping and usually provides a surprisingly accurate second opinion. We headed into a funky little secondhand shop to browse around and The Kid spotted a very retro little boy's tee that he described as "SO COOL." And he was SO RIGHT, I had to buy it for him. We then made our way to another funky little shop, where The Kid picked out a bracelet for Birthday Girl. He immediately pointed to the one he liked best, and after carefully surveying the other bracelets and ear rings in the display, I had to admit he was right. As I was paying for the bracelet, the store owner commented on his good taste and obvious predilection for shopping, and I started to think that maybe my friends are right. Maybe he is "girly".

Then I turned around to find that he'd discovered a Venus de Milo statue, and was casually cupping her breasts.

Uh huh. Girly my ass.

Relive them all:
Day One - video of a 5-year-old Kid covering Nirvana
Day Two - learning to fall
Day Three - a Mother's Day poem
Day Four - sarcasm
Day Five - you're already here, silly!
Day Six - desirable mate traits, according to The Kid
Day Seven - on temper tantrums and kidney stones
Day Eight - on dude love
Day Nine - on haircuts and freckles
Day Ten - about a ~~boy~~ little man

Photo by Chadica

Ten posts for ten years: Day four

2011-07-17T22:56:00.000-07:00

In honor of The Kid's 10th birthday, I am republishing some of my favorite Kid-related posts. Ten posts for ten years. Enjoy.

SARCASM BEYOND HIS YEARS

Originally published 1.13.08

"Why don't I hear you brushing your teeth?"

"Probably because you're not listening hard enough."

I pop my head into the bathroom to find that not only is The Kid brushing his teeth, but he already has his pj's on and has gone to the bathroom (but forgotten to flush, as usual). "Oh," I say. "Sorry."

"The point isn't to brush loud anyway, Mom. You don't kill cavities with noise, you know."

Relive them all:
Day One - video of a 5-year-old Kid covering Nirvana
Day Two - learning to fall
Day Three - a Mother's Day poem
Day Four - you're already here, silly!
Day Five - little ladies' man
Day Six - desirable mate traits, according to The Kid
Day Seven - on temper tantrums and kidney stones
Day Eight - on dude love
Day Nine - on haircuts and freckles
Day Ten - about a ~~boy~~ little man

Ten posts for ten years: Day three

2011-07-16T23:45:00.000-07:00

In honor of The Kid's 10th birthday, I am republishing some of my favorite Kid-related posts. Ten posts for ten years. Enjoy.

A MOTHER'S DAY POEM

(Originally published 5.10.09)

Roses are red

Violets are blue

You look like sugar in a bowl

But I would not eat you cause I know you're my mom

Love,

The Kid

Relive them all:
Day One - video of a 5-year-old Kid covering Nirvana
Day Two - learning to fall
Day Three - you're already here, silly!
Day Four - sarcasm
Day Five - little ladies' man
Day Six - desirable mate traits, according to The Kid
Day Seven - on temper tantrums and kidney stones
Day Eight - on dude love
Day Nine - on haircuts and freckles
Day Ten - about a ~~boy~~ little man

Ten posts for ten years: Day two

2011-07-15T13:53:00.000-07:00

In honor of The Kid's 10th birthday, I am republishing some of my favorite Kid-related posts. Ten posts for ten years. Enjoy.

LOOK AT YOU GO

(Originally published 4.12.09)

Just a week ago your dad sent me a text with video of you riding your bike. For years, you've been terrified of the thing, convinced that you'd crash and scrape your face off on the pavement. I partly blame this on your father who bought you the bike when you were four, when it was clearly WAY too big for you, and who took you out riding once, for about 15 minutes, before giving up and telling you that you weren't much of a bike rider.

But the truth is, you've always been a timid, cautious child - enough that I'd begun to think you'd spend the rest of your life hanging back, waiting in the wings. I've tried over and over to explain to you that crashing is part of learning; part of life. But to you, crashing was part of embarrassing falls and bleeding knees and you wanted no part of it, thank you very much.

And now look at you go.

When your dad dropped you off that day, you were so proud of yourself. "I know how to ride a bike!" you yelled as you ran across the yard. "I decided I was going to ride that bike, and I did. I did!" You'd spent three days with your grandparents, and in the last 20 minutes of the last day, you'd learned to ride a bike and your first 2-wheeled scooter (an early birthday present from Grandma).

You spent most of the next day giving me repeated heart attacks as you rode scooters with your best friend. He's had his scooter (and his bike) for at least a year, and you had to fight to keep up with him. I watched anxiously from the dining room window as he taught you to jump over the cracks in the sidewalk, terrified that you were moments from splitting open your chin but elated that you were really going for it. You were awkward and wobbly and completely uncoordinated, and you were having the time of your life.

I walked you both up to the park that afternoon so you could have a little more room and more interesting things on which to kill yourselves. You jumped off curbs and raced around mossy corners and fell over and over and over again. And aside from that one spill with a particularly ground-shaking elbow landing, you just grinned and answered my concerned glances with a shrug and a casual "Falling is part of learning, Mom."

There is no better gift than proof that you've actually been listening to me.

As I write this today, you are zipping up and down the block on your bike. You have discovered that standing while you pedal makes you go faster, and when you're tired you slowly ride around dangling one hand casually at your hip. You still tend to over-correct when you find yourself about to ride into something, quickly jerking the handlebars and landing yourself, hard, on the sidewalk as a result. There was a time such a thing would've been enough for you to heave that bike into the garage and not even look at it again for six months. But now you stop just long enough for me to acknowledge the severity of your wounds and wipe the snot bubbles from your nose before returning with angry determination to show that bike who's boss.

And though I still cringe with every waver, every near miss, every scraped and bloodied patch of skin, I am so proud of the way you've thrown yourself into this with a fearless tenacity usually reserved solely for arguments involving bedtime.

I think I'll never forget that first vision of you riding, your jagged steering zig-zagging you down the sidewalk and through the neighbor's flowerbeds, your helmet slightly askew because I hadn't correctly adjusted the straps. And I will never in a million years forget the sound of your small voice proudly calling to me, "Mom! Mom! Look at me go!"

Yes, love. I'm watching. Look at you go.

Relive them all:
Day One - video of a 5-year-old Kid covering Nirvana
Day Two - you're already here, silly!
Day Three - a Mother's Day poem
Day Four - sarcasm
Day Five - little ladies' man
Day Six - desirable mate traits, according to The Kid
Day Seven - on temper tantrums and kidney stones
Day Eight - on dude love
Day Nine - on haircuts and freckles
Day Ten - about a ~~boy~~ little man

Ten posts for ten years: Day one

2011-07-14T00:13:00.001-07:00

And just like that, he's ten.

Ten.

An entire decade under his belt.

TEN!

I've been sitting here for over an hour trying to write a suitably profound post; one that will convey the precise mix of emotions I'm feeling; one that will eloquently describe the beautiful chaos of being a mother, of being his mother.

But so far all I've got is this: TEN!

And that simply will not cut it. I'm not sure anything I'm capable of writing can cut it. So I've decided, instead, to resurrect some of my favorite Kid-related posts and republish one a day for the next ten days.

Ten posts for ten years.

Starting with this one, my all-time favorite, originally published in April of 2007 when The Kid was just 5-years-old:

HELLO COBAIN, COME ON IN

The Kid's always been a bit of a rocker.

As an infant, he was rocked to sleep several times a day to the tune of Ryan Adams. By two, he'd discovered the Flaming Lips and their robots. Next, the Beastie Boys put in a brief appearance, thanks to the influence of a neighbor kid. The following year, he couldn't get enough of Modest Mouse. For the past year or so, he's been overcome with his first true rock band obsession in the form of The Vines. Most recently, Rage Against the Machine has gotten a lot of play, ever since The Kid heard "Sleep Now in the Fire" on the radio. And now the inevitable has happened: he's discovered Nirvana. And when I say "discovered," what I really mean is "listens to the band every night - over... and over... and over... - much as his father did during the entire last decade of the 20th century."

His dad burned The Kid a custom-made Nirvana cd - made up of mostly b-sides and rarities, as is the Seattle way - and we've spent the past few weeks "practicing" after dinner. Since everyone knows girls can't be rock stars, my role is generally relegated to "dancer" or "member of the audience," though I'm occasionally permitted to play back-up guitar or drums. Mostly, though, I consult on lyrics. And guess who is equal parts mortified and impressed to find that Mommy - someone who's not only too old to be cool, but also a girl - has not only heard of Nirvana, but actually KNOWS ALL THE WORDS to the songs!?

He's got himself an impressive scream. Sings a series of mostly unintelligible lyrics (did I hear something about a raw potato?). And he plays his guitar like a lefty. Who better, then, to follow in the footsteps of Cobain?

Only with less heroin. And even less Courtney Love.

Relive them all:
Day One - you're already here, silly!
Day Two - learning to fall
Day Three - a Mother's Day poem
Day Four - sarcasm
Day Five - little ladies' man
Day Six - desirable mate traits, according to The Kid
Day Seven - on temper tantrums and kidney stones
Day Eight - on dude love
Day Nine - on haircuts and freckles
Day Ten - about a ~~boy~~ little man

Exactly the same

2011-07-12T22:55:00.000-07:00

The Man is divorced!

You're probably thinking, "Duh, I already knew that."

But you're wrong. Because he wasn't divorced until 11 days ago. It wasn't official until July 1, and he wasn't notified until Saturday. We drove to the post office to pick up the certified letter, hoping. (At least, I was hoping. The Man seemed almost indifferent.) He didn't know for certain that the final papers had even been filed, so it was possible that his attorney was sending him another revised something-or-other in need of signing.

I waited in the car while The Man ran inside the post office. "Maybe your daddy's finally divorced," I said to The Baby, and imagined how different our lives would be... which is not at all. The Man and his ex have been divorced in all ways but the legal one for years. The fact that he was still legally married never really bothered me. My own divorce took longer than it should have, simply because by the time we were done "breaking up," the actual divorce process seemed like a redundant (and expensive) formality. So I really wasn't bothered by his lingering marital status.

At first. But then I got pregnant. Knocked up by a married man.

I didn't like the sound of that, even if it was just a technicality. But what was there to be done about it? Divorce proceedings began a few months later, but even if they managed to divorce before The Baby was born, it wouldn't change the fact that he was married when I conceived. So I decided to not worry about it. Water under the bridge as they say.

And I didn't (except for a couple of hormone-fueled episodes that left me sobbing in bed, which isn't really saying much if you consider that I also ended up sobbing in bed for things like empty tubes of toothpaste, sloppy joes, and purple socks when I wanted blue). But I did ask periodically, as the process seemed to drag out longer than necessary, "So... are you divorced yet?"

The answer hadn't been yes yet, but maybe today would be different.

He returned to the car with a large envelope and tore into it as I pulled out of the parking lot. Just like that, I was (finally) sitting next to a divorced man. And our lives carried on, exactly the same.

Your turn: If you're divorced, how long were you separated before your divorce was final? Any particular reason it took as long (or went as quickly) as it did? Did you land in a serious relationship before you were legally divorced?

Blended family, interrupted

2011-07-06T11:18:00.000-07:00

I've never met The Man's daughters.

Technically I did meet his oldest once, long ago, before we were even dating. She was still a baby - nine months maybe? I met The Man and his wife at a park for what was supposed to be a farewell visit before they relocated to Toronto. It was during that visit that I learned they were expecting their second child. So, if you really want to stretch, I suppose you could say that I've been in the presence of both his girls. But that was years ago.

And now they live with their mom, many states away. Though there have been many half-formulated plans to get the girls to Seattle for an extended visit, they've all fallen through for one reason or another. Currently it's money. We just don't have enough to allow The Man to fly to Dallas, grab the girls and fly with them back to Seattle, visit, fly with the girls back to Dallas, and fly The Man back home again. That's four sets of expensive round-trip tickets. So, instead of having them in Seattle for the summer like we'd hoped, The Man is making plans to fly to Dallas to conduct a long weekend visit there.

It's a visit that's long, long overdue, so I'm happy that The Man will see them soon. But I'm sad this blended family continues to be only partially blended. Shaken, but not stirred.

Things

2011-07-01T18:53:00.001-07:00

There are about a million ideas swirling around in my head today, a sure sign that my ailing lips are beginning to heal up. This often happens to me after an illness - I'm down and sluggish for so long that I audibly POP! back into my usual over-achieving, to-do list generating, ambitious self. And now I'm not only coming out of my sick, but I'm coming out of what feels like years of ignoring what I really wanted to do with my life. (In large part because I couldn't quite define what I really wanted to do with my life. Still can't actually, but I'm getting closer.) The double whammy of feel-betterness has my head spinning with frenetic energy and possibilities. Also, the caffeine might've helped.

I had a number of posts scheduled to write this week - an effort to wind all these threads of ideas into one cohesive ball of string - but, alas. Big fat puffy lips have a way of messing with one's plans. So, instead, here are some ramblings; things I meant to share but didn't, now in condensed form:

1. It is an excellent thing to be in a relationship with a man who instinctively knows when I most need to be surprised with jelly bellies.

2. It is also an excellent thing to be in a relationship with a man who instinctively knows when The Kid needs a little extra kick-the-soccer-ball-around attention.

3. I am making slow but steady progress towards redesigning this blog. And it makes me very happy.

4. I have decided that I really, really like the idea of starting my own business. Plans are being made, also slow and steady and mostly only in my head. This also makes me very happy.

5. This is what happens when moms let their kids do whatever they want with their hair:

My lips are not bright orange!

2011-06-30T12:49:00.000-07:00

Yours probably aren't either. But you're not excited about it, I'm guessing, because yours weren't bright orange yesterday either. Or the day before that. Or on and off for the past nine months.

Mine? Were. All of those things: yesterday, the day before that, and on and off for the past nine months. But today they're not. They're still all sorts of fucked up, but they're not bright orange.

Halle-fucking-lujah.

It started last fall with what I originally thought was a very sudden case of chapped lips. There were many reasons that self-diagnosis didn't make a ton of sense, but I was nursing and it seemed plausible that I was dehydrated and my lips were taking the brunt of it. But nothing you would think would help chapped lips had any effect and so I eventually went to the doctor who decided it must be a bacterial infection. Probably staph. After two rounds of antibiotics, things seemed to clear up.

And then a month passed, and it was back... only worse... and the antibiotics weren't helping. We (The Baby and I) were also suffering with thrush, an infection which he'd passed from his mouth to my nipples. I thought perhaps the yeast had made its way to my lips. (This was a theory I'd presented to my doctor, but he'd scoffed.) But the lip flare ups tended to coincide with vaginal yeast infections (Hi! TMI!) and so, on a hunch, I applied some of the yeast medication intended for my nipples to my lips. (Er. The ones on my face. Oy.) And, lo!, my lips cleared up.

And then a month passed, and it was back... only worse... and neither the antibiotics nor the yeast medication was helping. And by now my health insurance situation was all jacked (thanks, stupid former employer) and so going back to the doctor was something I couldn't afford. I kept applying the antibiotics, yeast medication, and Vaseline because I didn't know what else to do, and The Man recommended some supplements. Something - maybe just time - eventually worked, and the infection cleared up.

And then a month passed, and it was back...

I went through this cycle several times before getting in to see a different doctor, who diagnosed a skin irritation (which, you know, duh), and referred me to a dermatologist. She also prescribed yet another topical medication, which, after another two or three weeks, seemed to do the trick. I didn't bother following up with the dermatologist because a) no money and b) since my lips were back to normal, there wasn't anything for a dermatologist to look at.

Life was grand for about a month, and then I ate a nectarine. Two slices of a nectarine. Immediately my lips began to tingle and throb. Within 20 minutes, they were red and puffy. I applied the topical medication that had been last prescribed, but it had no effect other than burning like a mofo. By that night, a thin crust was covering my weeping lips.

Did you know lips can weep? I didn't either before all this shit happened. Remember those pink eye infections you got when you were a kid, and you'd wake up in the morning with your eyes glued shut? Now imagine that on your mouth.

Yeah. Sexy.

Naturally, I tried to make an appointment with the dermatologist, but they were booked solid for the next two months. The only other place my shitty insurance covers was booked out two weeks, which was better except that THERE WAS SOME WEIRD ORANGY PUS-TYPE STUFF OOZING OUT AND CRUSTING ALL OVER MY LIPS. I could barely open my mouth to speak or eat. The pain was incredible (says the woman who birthed two children sans drugs). I couldn't imagine dealing for another two weeks and so I moved on to plan b: sobbing.

Luckily, I was able to write an email to my primary physician through my tears. Though no one in that office is a dermatologist, she recommended a couple who have dermatology experience and managed to get me in to see someone that day.

That day was yesterday. After going through the entire history, the latest doctor suspects two or three things are happening simultaneously:

Both nursing and the hormonal cluster fuck of having a baby have left me dehydrated. Dry lips are susceptible to things like:
Fungal infection (Quite possibly yeast. Take THAT scoffing doctor #1!)
Contact reaction to certain foods. Like, for example, a nectarine.

Obviously the most recent attack was nectarine-related (option 3 for the win), but most of the previous attacks can not be so directly linked to a single event. In the past, the symptoms came on far more gradually. The doc believes any one of the three causes above could've led to any other of the three, so it's possible I've been dealing with a fungal infection and a contact reaction at the same time.

She prescribed yet another medication, which thankfully seems to be working, albeit very, very slowly. As of now, I can talk (but not smile) and I can eat (but very slowly and extremely carefully); the pain is manageable; and my lips are still a bit puffy, a bit red, and quite crusty.

But they are NOT bright orange.

Baby steps, people. Baby steps.

Today's fun thing: peace and quiet

2011-06-28T18:07:00.001-07:00

The Kid is at his dad's for the night (which is his fun thing for today). The Baby is FINALLY napping. And I am drinking a soothing cup of tea from an alien mug.

A life full of Saturdays

2011-06-28T13:20:00.000-07:00

At the risk of stoking the mommy wars fires, I have to tell you guys something. This stay-at-home-mom gig? It's like a freaking vacation.

I'm not saying it's easy, mind you. I'm not saying there aren't a lot of chores to be done. And I certainly don't mean to diminish the importance of the SAHM job. But I could describe to you what I do on a day-to-day basis now. I could tell you about the laundry and the cooking and the grocery shopping and the chaufering and the weeding and the dishes and (of course) the actual parenting. But that? That's what I used to call Saturday. That list is what used to describe my day off. Because I did all of those things before too, back when I was working 40, 50, 60, even 70-hour work weeks. I still did the laundry and the cleaning and the cooking and the shopping and the chauferring and the weeding (okay, I usually skipped the weeding), and the parenting, but I did it all in a fraction of the time. Having an extra 50+ hours each week to complete basically the same list of tasks feels positively luxurious in comparison.

It's like a freaking vacation.

Cue the angry mob of SAHM-ers. But before I'm tarred and feathered, consider this: I am speaking of my personal experience only.

I don't suggest or expect that my experience is universal. There are any number of reasons for any number of people to declare being a SAHM the hardest thing they've ever done. And those people, I'm sure, are not lying. The nature of your work, the nature of your kid(s), your temperament, their temperaments, your age, their ages, your special needs, their special needs, how many of "you" there are (adults, I mean, like dads, nannies, sitters, housekeepers), how many of them there are - all of these factor in differently for different people.

For me, the difference between working mother and stay-at-home-mother is drastic enough to make staying at home feel like a vacation. Relatively speaking, of course. This would be a pretty crappy real vacation. But while, when I was working, my weekends were nothing close to relaxing days off, they were still days off. And now, every day feels like those old Saturdays. And I would like to, without offending anyone, express a small amount of joy for my life full of Saturdays.

What about you? Do you have experience with both working as a mother and staying home as a mother (or working from home as a mother)? Did you find one situation more challenging than another? Or was each situation equally difficult, but for slightly (or drastically) different reasons?

Today's fun thing: books

2011-06-27T17:47:00.001-07:00

The Kid has been out of school for less than a week, and he's already half-way through his second book. Today we hit the used book store to cash in some of our store credit and get him stocked up again.

It's also The Baby's 10-month birthday, which we used as an excuse to eat mini-cupcakes while we were out. When I asked The Kid if today's fun thing should be cupcakes or books, he showed no hesitation: books.

That's my boy!

Dear The Baby,

2011-06-27T11:16:00.000-07:00

Today you are 10-months-old. It's a little anti-climactic, actually, in that I've been rounding you up to 10-months since half way through month 9. Still, happy sort of birthday.

I'll be honest: you've kind of been driving me nuts this month. You've gotten to be far too mobile. Better were the days when I could set you in the middle of the floor and go about my business, confident in the knowledge that I'd find you right where I left you when I returned. In those days, I said things to you like, "How's my sweet boy?" and "Who's a cute little sedentary being?" But now our conversation has been reduced to one-word sentences: "No!" "Don't!" "Stop!" "Bad!" "Shit!"

Your fascination with chewing on electrical cords has been traded for a metal fetish. You suck on hinges, clasps, drawer pulls, buckles - anything you can get your lips on. And the table lamp. You haven't left the table lamp alone since you learned how to pull up on the furniture. I'm not sure what prompted the fascination, except maybe that it has both a cord and metal, making it your holy grail of chew toys.

I would blame it all on teething except that you seem quite determined to not start that anytime soon. You haven't cut a single tooth, and I'm beginning to think you never will. Not that I'm complaining. You're already a complete pain in the nipple to nurse, and I fail to see how the advent of teeth will improve the situation. But I hear dentures aren't particularly comfortable, so you might want to at least start thinking about sprouting some pearly whites.

And maybe also start thinking about where you're going. I don't mean in life - no need to get philosophical just yet. I mean maybe you should stop crawling into things. Watch where you're going. Because you hit your head a lot, and then you cry, and then I have to pretend to be sympathetic when really I just want to tell you STOP TRYING TO CRAWL UNDER THE GOD DAMNED CHAIR!

Which brings me to the yelling. I've been doing a lot of it this month, and I'm sorry about that. I could stand to be getting more sleep. Or more caffeine, though I try to stay away from that on account of the whole human milk machine thing. But really what I need is to accomplish something - anything - in a reasonable amount of time, which you make entirely impossible. It's not your fault. It's your job to try to learn to walk and to knock over every single thing I own in the process. You're doing exactly what you're supposed to be doing. But I am a task-oriented kind of person. I make to-do lists for the sheer thrill of being able to check things off, and it's driving me crazy that there's been no checking off in my life. And so I yell, and that's not right. I'm working on a plan to combat that; one that involves going to bed earlier, arranging a sitter so I can take a long overdue baby break, and including more easily accomplished items on my to-do list. (Eat something? Shower? Spill cereal all over kitchen floor? Check, check, and check!)

Because when you're not being a complete and total pain in my ass who never lets me get a damn thing accomplished, you're pretty incredibly awesome and, really, I'm loving the shit out of getting to spend so much time with you.

Even if you won't leave the damn lamp alone.

Today's fun thing: Gasworks Park

2011-06-24T18:59:00.000-07:00

Today's not fun thing: the batteries on my real camera dying as soon as we arrived, forcing me to document the outing via sucky camera phone.

Also fun was stopping by the site of my former employer, which is very near the park, and saying hello to a few former coworkers who I've been missing. And it was fun making my former boss (the one who fires new mothers while they're on maternity leave) uncomfortable. Heh.

Excellent alternatives to here

2011-06-24T11:44:00.000-07:00

Today's fun thing

2011-06-23T23:33:00.000-07:00

The Internets are currently full of laments from stay-at-home-parents facing an entire summer vacation with their children. There's probably good reason for this, but as a first-timer I'm (perhaps naively) looking forward to it. Single mommyhood for me meant long, long, long hours at work and only barely enough time at home to get The Kid fed and off to bed each night. Playing together has always been something of a rare luxury, which makes the idea of spending an entire summer hanging out with my boys feel a little like winning the lottery. I'm not even kidding. Especially since I know this could very well be the only summer I have the chance to do so.

So I'm going to enjoy it. Even if it's as exhausting and trying and migraine-inducing as you all make it out to be. Even if The Kid is already driving me crazy with nearly incessant machine gun sound effects. Because I've been missing out on this. Because they'll never be 10-months-old and (nearly) 10-years-old again. And because we are going to have fun.

Today's fun thing: swinging.

My hope is to document a fun thing every day so that when I'm old(er) and wrinkled(er) I can look back and be reminded of that one time I spent a whole glorious summer playing with my kids.

What were you made for?

2011-06-23T11:07:00.000-07:00

During dinner, The Kid informed me that we're all made for something very specific.

"I was made for giving monkeys confidence."

"You were made for having babies."

"The Man was made for... you!"

"The Baby was made for cuteness."

"Grandma was made for making costumes."

"And my dad was made for forgetting things."

I've no idea what that confident monkey thing is all about, and I'm pretty sure I was not made for making babies. But he certainly does have his dad down.

10 reasons I don't follow you on Twitter

2011-06-22T13:20:00.000-07:00

1. All you do is retweet.
If you don't have any of your own ideas, I'm not interested. I'll just follow the more interesting people you're retweeting and drop you.

2. You participate in waaaaay too many Tweet-ups.
I don't need my feed filled up with one half of a conversation that I'm not a part of. I'll give you one, maybe two Twitter parties. Maybe more if it's for a good cause, like your Tweet-up is going to rid the world of Glenn Beck or something. In fact, I'll give you as many damn tweet-ups as it takes to rid the world of Glenn Beck. But if you're Twitter partying all over my feed and Glenn Beck isn't out of here? You are.

3. You Tweet in all caps. ALL THE TIME.
I can appreciate a well-timed, all-capped rant. I can NOT appreciate an entire stream of tweets that've been formatted in all-caps FOR NO APPARENT REASON. (Hello, well-timed all-caps rant!) IT LEADS ME TO BELIEVE THAT YOU ARE EITHER AN ATTENTION WHORE OR YOU'RE REALLY, REALLY MAD AT ME. I DON'T LIKE ATTENTION WHORES AND I CRY WHEN PEOPLE YELL AT ME, SO YOU UNDERSTAND WHY I MUST UNFOLLOW. (And now I have a headache from all the shouting.)

4. All your tweets are sponsored.
I can live with an occasional sponsored tweet. We've all gotta earn some cash. I get it. But all of your tweets? No thank you.

5. All you do is promote your blog.
Have a blog? Promote the shit out of it. But say other stuff too. Stuff that doesn't link back to your blog. Or tell me how great your blog is. Or request that I Facebook like your blog's fan page.

6. You don't understand the concept of 140 characters.
Sometimes it's hard to fit it all in. I get it. An occasional abbreviation is okay. But if you have to remove every single vowel in order to make your tweet fit the limit, you should probably rethink your strategy. Like, get a blog. I dnt wnt 2 hv 2 dcifr ur shrthnd.

7. You consistently write multi-tweet tweets.
You do know how Twitter works, right? Our streams show your most recent tweet first. So we're all reading each other's thoughts backwards, essentially. And in between your backwards thoughts are a lot of other people's backwards thoughts. So if you're a habitual multi-tweeter, it's safe to assume that I never have any idea what you're talking about. Again. I know. Sometimes it's hard to fit it all into 140 characters. GET. A. BLOG.

8. You have terrible grammar.
Affect and effect are not interchangeable. Neither are your and you're. Or there and their and they're. Or too and to and two. Or compliment and complement. Also? Spelling matters. And punctuation. We all mess up sometimes. I've thrown out my fair share of incorrect their/ere/ey'res. But you? I don't think you're even trying.

9. Just because you're following me.
I don't follow everyone who follows me. I just don't. And I don't expect everyone I follow to follow me back. You know what? Not everyone thinks I'm interesting. And not everyone thinks you are either. We're all grown ups. I'm not going to clutter up my stream with commentary I'm not interested in just to be polite. Sorry.

10. I forgot.
You followed me. I meant to check out your profile, but The Baby started making that grunting noise. You know the one. And so I had to deal with that. And then he spit up on the couch and knocked the lamp off the end table. Again. And then I sat down and cried because THIS IS WHY WE CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS. And then I ate an entire bag of jelly bellies to make myself feel better, because jelly bellies are nice things and I can have them. And then I slipped into a sugar-induced coma. And then I forgot all about you and your profile. True story.

From the vault: First day

2011-06-21T13:40:00.000-07:00

Ed: Today's post was originally published on September 5, 2007 on The Kid's first day of kindergarten. Today was his last day of the 3rd grade, so the reflection seemed appropriate. It seems like only yesterday...

I just dropped off The Kid for his first day of kindergarten.

Wait. I need to pause for a moment to process that. It just doesn't seem possible.

Okay. So, as I was saying, I just dropped off The Kid for his first day of kindergarten. We've spent the last week frantically traveling to every Target, Fred Meyer, and Bartell's for miles trying to gather up all the necessary school supplies. (Do you remember being required to bring 24 glue sticks on your first day of school? All the more for the kids to eat, I guess...) And we have been very, very excited to start "real" school. At least up until 11:00 last night, when I walked past The Kid's room wondering how on earth he could still be awake, and heard him crying. "I'm excited, but I'm scared too," he sobbed.

No tears this morning, though (for either of us). He loaded up his camouflage Kermit the Frog back back - complete with faux peace patches "sewn" on - with his lunch, a change of clothes (because there are apparently a lot of accidents the first week of school), and a folder for his homework. Because they do that now: homework in kindergarten.

We got to school and (im)patiently waited for the first bell to ring along with all of the other (im)patient children. (At least I think they were children. They looked a lot like backpacks with legs, but I'm assuming there were heads and faces and arms hidden in there somewhere.) And then finally, when the suspense was almost too much to bear, we were allowed into the building.

The Kid is in the same class as three of his preschool classmates, so the first order of business was finding them and comparing backpacks, lunch boxes, and water bottles. Once that was completed, we set off to find The Kid his cubby and his desk. Then we colored a picture of a picnic basket (to indicate that The Kid brought his own lunch) and a picture of a car (to indicate that The Kid will be picked up by his mommy this afternoon).

And then the adults went about unloading all of the schools supplies. So, as I was mentioning, things have changed a bit since I was in school. For one thing, kindergarten is an all day affair and they've traded naps for homework. For another, "peechees" are now called "folders." And finally: the supplies you send to school with your child on the first day do not actually belong to your child. Instead, everything goes into giant bins for the entire class to share. And some of the supplies struck me as a little odd: two dozen glue sticks, tulip bulbs, 1 yard of clean fabric, clorox wipes, box of kleenex, hand sanitizer, a check for $30. But whatever.

So as the children colored, the adults began sorting the supplies into the proper bins, clearly labeled in neat block letters. Regular markers in the bin labeled "markers;" white board markers in the bin marked "dry erase;" glue sticks in the bin labeled "shit load o' glue sticks;" and so on.

But uh oh! What's this? There's no bin labeled "elmers glue." Have you seen the bin for the glue? Is it over there? I don't see it. And oh my god! What about the bulbs? There's no bulb bin. Do you know where I should put my bulbs? I don't know where to put my bulbs. SWEET MOTHER OF JESUS, I CAN'T FIND THE BULB BIN!!

And so we wandered the classroom, each parent anxiously clutching a bottle of glue and a bag of bulbs, until eventually we all reached the same conclusion: search as we might, we were not going to find the properly labeled bins we sought. At that point, you would think that one reasonably sane adult would simply pick a clear spot on the counter and create a bulb pile there. Surely the teacher would recognize a pile of bulbs, even without the tidy block-lettered label. But this isn't real life, this is KINDERGARTEN, and you can't just go around creating bulb and glue piles willy nilly. First, you must ask the teacher. And so, one parent finally asked where she'd like the glue and bulbs.

But before he asked? He raised his hand.

Yong lady: this is, not quite, your world

2011-06-20T19:10:00.000-07:00

Photo by Morning Theft

A few days ago, a friend posted a link to this post from JohnShore.com. I saw the title and scoffed:

"Young Woman: This, Finally, is Your World"

Ha! But I decided to read it anyway. Maybe Mr. Shore knew something I didn't. Or maybe he was just another middle-aged white dude who thinks he knows what it's like to be not a middle-aged white dude.

Turns out, the sentiment of the article was admirable. Mr. Shore was sincerely attempting to encourage young women to refuse to accept others' notions of their inferiority. That's a worth message, right?

But.

But something bugged me about it. About nearly the whole thing. Something I couldn't quite put my finger on. And so I continued chewing on it, trying to figure it out, and I continued to dislike the taste it left in my mouth.

First I had to grapple with whether or not I was reacting to a male author. If a woman had written the exact same thing, would it still bug me? After much thought, I've decided it would.

For one thing, Mr. Shore argues that the whole inequality in the genders can be boiled down to the fact that men can beat women up, which I think is kind of ridiculous. It ignores the fact that once upon a time (when men were just as capable of beating women up) our ancestors valued equally the contributions of both genders. Something happened to change that, though I can't claim to know what. Some blame the advent of agriculture for drastically changing the way we lived and the gender roles assigned; some blame the advent of organized religions, most of which at least hint at misogyny. It doesn't matter really; the point is I'm not buying the "beat up" theory and I wouldn't be any more inclined to if it'd been written by a woman.

Second, I hate oversimplifications. And the suggestion to "smack that shit back where it came from" any time it's suggested, subtly or overtly, that you, young lady, are inferior to a man is a bit of an oversimplification. If that's all it took, we wouldn't still be having this conversation. Women have been smacking that shit for generations. Yes, we're making progress. Yes, we should continue to call men/society/media on their shit. But that's not all there is to it.

"Smack that nonsense back, every time. Don’t give in an inch. If someone, in any way, tries to put you down, call them on it. Make them own that mess. And if you doing that alienates them from you, wave good-bye to ‘em. Life’s too short to spend time with anyone who ever tries to diminish you, however subtly they might do it."

Yes. That's great. In theory. But what happens when the person trying to "put you down" is your supervisor? What then? Most women are not in a position to just "wave good-bye" to their jobs. And that, ladies? That shit from your supervisor? It's probably gonna happen a few times. You're going to have to have a few more tricks up your sleeves than smacking shit and waving goodbye.

Tricks like not having babies. Because, as Mr. Shore so astutely points out, women have a bit of a monopoly on that child birth thing. And the fact of the matter is this: there is a very good chance that becoming a mother will adversely affect your career. Coworkers and supervisors will assume you've become less reliable, even if you don't take any more sick days to care for a sick baby than your non-mothering counterparts take to care for themselves. You'll likely have one hell of a time finding affordable infant care, which could mean that it makes more financial sense for you to stay home - even if you don't want to. And if you do stay home - either by choice or necessity - don't think for a second that you'll be able to pick up where you left off when (if) you attempt to reenter the workforce. Expect to start all over again, from ground zero.

Young lady, if this really was, finally, your world as Mr. Shore suggests, mothers (and fathers, for that matter) would have guaranteed paid maternity leave like the rest of the western world. There would be quality, affordable day care, and it would be perfectly acceptable for mothers to mother without their careers suffering for it. In Canada and most of Europe, women are granted ONE YEAR of maternity leave. In the U.S.? You'll get 3 months if you're lucky. You'll get paid a reduced salary for a portion of that time, if you're lucky. You'll have a job to come back to, if you're lucky. Or you might end up like me. You might have your first baby while working for a company large enough to be beholden to FMLA law. You might take your leave with reduced pay, and return three months later to find that your position has been permanently assigned to the woman hired to cover for you during your leave. You might find that you still have a job with the company, but it might be an entirely different job than the one you thought you had. (If your company is large enough, it's required to hold a position for you, but it doesn't have to be the one you left.) You might have to fight tooth and nail for the next 18 months to get your old position back. And then, because you weren't burned enough the first time around, you might have your 2nd baby while working for a much smaller company - one that isn't beholden to FMLA laws. One that - in fact - is too small (but only just) to be beholden to anti-discrimination laws as well. You might arrange for a completely unpaid 3-month leave of absence (because your company offers zero, zilch, nada by way of maternity benefits) during which time you burn through all of your savings, which is no big deal because you have a job to go back to. Only maybe, shortly before you're scheduled to return to work, you'll get a call from your boss telling you that he's decided to let you go. Maybe it will turn out that you spent 2 months training a woman you thought was going to cover for you, only to find that she's been given your position permanently. And there won't be a damn thing you can do about it.

Did you catch that? Twice. Twice I took time off to have a baby, from two different companies, and both times my job was given away. Both. Fucking. Times. Maybe I'm over-personalizing, but my story is not uncommon. Pregnancy has a very good chance of ruining your career. Also? Your marriage. But that's a subject for a different post.

Okay. Rant over. Moving on.

Then there's this little bit of pontification:

"As any access to about any world news at all shows, men still have much more power in this world than, God knows, they should. But that’s rapidly changing. And, most importantly, things won’t ever go back to the way they were. We really are in a new time; this really is a new world. And in this world, women get to be whomever and however they want."

Well, those are just words. Optimistic and hopeful, but backed up by nothing more than one man's typing fingers. Rapidly changing? Is that why women are still paid, on average, 77 cents for every dollar a man is paid? Is that why a 2010 Catalyst study found that female MBAs make, on average, $4600 less in their first job than men (after taking into account number of years prior experience, time since MBA, job level, global region, industry, and even parenthood)? Is that why a 2011 Grant Thornton study found that women account for only 20% of senior management positions, down from 24% in 2009 (and only slightly higher than the 21% reported in 2004). Is that why 90% of the post-recession jobs created have gone to men (according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics). Is that why over a 10 year period (2001 - 2011), the number of women in U.S. Congress has increased by only 3%, women in state legislatures has increased by only 1.1%, and women in the statewide elective is actually down by 5.7% (source)?*

I'm beginning to think Mr. Shore is maybe talking just a little bit out his ass. Good-intentioned as he is, he's just... wrong. Are things better than they were in the '50s? Sure, thanks to the generation before me. (Thanks, mom!) But rapidly changing? A new world? Pardon me, Mr. Shore, while I scoff again.

But for all that, I think what bugs me the most about the post is the reaction to it. The comments, the "Must Read!" repostings of it on Facebook and Twitter.

As if this is a new idea. As if this is really something women need to be told: "you're not inferior to men."

No fucking shit.

Yet, the reaction would suggest that it is, in fact, something that women need to be told. And that we need to be reminded of such a thing only proves how wrong Mr. Shore is. Young lady, this is NOT your world. Not as long as you have to be talked out of believing that it isn't.

*I was led to many of the studies cited through this Huffpost Women article by Barbara Hannah Grufferman, which I happened to stumble upon just a few short hours after reading Mr. Shores post. You should probably read it too.

It's my vagina and I'll text it if I want to

2011-06-16T22:59:00.000-07:00

This is not a post about Wiener. Or wieners. Or, specifically, Wiener's wiener. This is not a post about that. I think we've all heard enough about that for one lifetime. You're welcome.

No, instead this is a post about my vagina. (Again: you're welcome.) My vagina and texts, which makes it kind of like Wiener's wiener and tweets. But not. Less, wiener-y for one thing. More vagina-y.

Really, this is a post about how many times I can say "wiener" and "vagina" in three paragraphs. Which, apparently, is quite a lot. Wiener.

Anyhoo...

There's been a lot of Internet chatter lately about sexting, prompted, in large part, by that whole Wiener's wiener thing that we're definitely NOT talking about. (Not sure why it moved so quickly into a conversation about sexting, since Wiener tweeted his junk, but I suspect it's because no one's figured out a clever way to combine the word "sex" with "tweet" yet.) Aside from the prolific conversation around Wiener specifically—which we're still not talking about—a number of general questions regarding sexting have been raised repeatedly, including this one: "What kind of person does that anyway?"

It's this question, often asked with clear distaste, that I'd like to address. Because I have an answer for that. Two answers, actually. The first: a lot of people. The second: me.

ME. I have sexted. Plenty. I have engaged in everything from slightly flirtatious to overtly sexual conversations via text. I have even, sent pictures of my junk via text. A 2-year, long distance relationship will do that to a person. And I also have this to say:

What of it?

If I want to entice my man to skip out of work a little early with a bit of suggestive conversation, what of it? If I'm feeling a bit more urgent and simply let him know that I could use a good fuck, what of it? If I decide he deserves a nipple shot from time to time, what of it? Maybe he might like to see more. Maybe it's a good old fashioned crotch shot he's after. What of it? Does it make me a whore if I comply? Am I some sort of kinky sexual deviant? Pffft.

You heard me. Pffft! It's my vagina, and I'll text it if I want to.

(Also, "kinky" is funny. It sounds like some old-timey word my mom would use to describe having sex with the lights on.)

But there are dangers in sexting, you say. And of course, you're right. For one thing, The Man's name used to be right below my former (very, very Christian) boss's name in my phonebook. One slight slip of the thumb could've easily resulted in a rather uncomfortable work environment, a thought which honestly just makes me laugh. (Now his name is safely swaddled between the names of two of my lovely lady friends. So be prepared, Jacque and Kellie.) And I know we're dealing with cyberspace here, where nothing ever really goes away. Those texts could fall into the wrong hands, it's true. I know this and—as someone who has experienced the embarrassment of nudie pics being seen by someone(s) other than the intended recipient (this back in the old fashioned days of Polaroid pictures)—I know how not awesome that it. I also know I'm capable of getting over it.

So now you know what kind of person does that. The me kind. What of it?

This about sums up my week

2011-06-15T09:58:00.000-07:00

*Warning: awful, terrible, horrible, completely-appropriate-when-your-damn-kids-won't-slip-into-slumber language*

Life list

2011-06-14T14:24:00.000-07:00

The dear Maggie Mason was one the first bloggers I discovered (2nd only to Dooce), way back before I really even understood what blogging was. I have been copying her ever since. I signed up for Mondo Beyondo on her recommendation. I bought some brutal body busting exercise DVD because she told me to. I stole gift ideas from Mighty Goods and Mighty Haus and Mighty Junior (sites that once were awesome before she sold them into mediocrity). I fell in love with Etsy just like she said I would, and I created a Twitter account because she was all like, "Hey! Look at this thing! It is new and exciting and you will do it!" And I did. I bought her book, which is good because prior to reading it I was pretty sure you were interested in nothing but what I had for lunch. She even signed it. "You are great," it says on the inside cover. But if she suggested that I watch Oprah or thank Oprah, I would refuse. I do not like Oprah. And that's why Maggie and I can never be real friends.

But it doesn't stop me from copying her mighty life list. (Or, more accurately, copying her life list idea. I couldn't just copy her list. Hers includes "Meet Ms. Whinfrey," which, as we already discussed, ew.)

My list includes lofty items like #29 (take a year-long road trip) and #47 (step foot on all seven continents) and more simple - but equally drool-worthy - desires like #36 (sleep through the night). Every item is measurable, because I actually was paying attention in all those business meetings (definable, measurable goals). So, for example, "read more" became #s 17 and 18: read 100 fiction books and read 100 nonfiction books, respectively. Otherwise, how would I ever know when to mark "read more" as complete? The list currently contains 59 items, a strange number to select for an ending point. Which is because it's not an ending point, it just means I got sleepy last night and stopped listing. But that's okay. It's an evolving list. I'll add things. I'll mark things off. I'll replace things like "read 100 books" with "read 100 more books." And I reserve the write to eliminate things, should they become less important to me over time (Antarctica, I'm looking at you).

You can see my full list here.

Do you have a life list? What's on yours?

From the vault

2011-06-08T08:45:00.000-07:00

I've been spending a lot of time lately thinking about this blog. Clearly it needs a redesign, but I'm short on cash. And it should probably be moved off of Blogger. And it's probably about time that I buy myself a real URL. And thinking about these things make me think about what I want this blog to be. When I started writing here (nearly six years ago!), I did it very secretly. I didn't want to read anyone else's blog (not that there was anyone else blogging that long ago - pretty much just me and the dinosaurs) and I certainly didn't want anyone reading mine. Over the last few years, I've changed my thinking on the whole no-one-read-these-words-I'm-pushing-out-to-the-whole-of-the-internets stance, but I haven't actively done anything to change it. I'm thinking it might be time.

All this thinking about the future of my blog has made me revisit its past. Tonight I read through some of my earliest (and mostly cringe-worthy) posts. I was startled to see that my first post about The Man was written within a month of starting my blog - startled because that was six years ago and how is it possible that we've known each other that long?!

I informed him of this impossible fact. "We've known each other almost 6-1/2 years!"

"In all that time, you'd think we'd have had more sex," he replied.

Indeed.

Except, of course, we couldn't have had more sex because somebody was busy having sex with someone else. (The Man was the somebody, in case that wasn't clear. And me? I was the piner, for years, loving him from afar. More on that here, for those new to the story.)

A snippet from that ancient post:

Not so long ago I was (dating? seeing? hanging out with?) a guy we'll call The Man. I fell quickly and completely in love. Unfortunately, he was living with his girlfriend when I met him (on December 18th - isn't it weird that I remember the date?). They were engaged a few months later. Now they're married. Lots of tears on my end, but eventually I pulled myself up. Yay me.

For whatever reason, I have this disgusting habit of keeping in touch with - and, dare I say it, remaining friends with - men I've (dated? seen? hung out with?), even the ones I maybe shouldn't. So, The Man came by last night to catch up. Have to admit, the first glimpse of the new ring made my breath catch, and I stood there waiting for the well of emotion, promising myself I wouldn't cry. Stood and waited. Waited a little more. And finally realized that particular well of emotion has run dry. Thank god almighty, I'm free at last.

I've never forgotten the date that we met: December 18, 2004. I made no conscious effort to remember it, but there it is. There it has always been. Free I never was.

Tellin' it like it is

2011-06-07T10:03:00.000-07:00

The Kid: [reading from an advertisement] "Women move the world."

Me: "That's right."

The Kid: "Women move the world?"

Me: "Women move the world."

The Kid: "What?! What about men?!"

Me: "Men are the ones who put the world in the wrong spot in the first place."

Aw, snap! (Or whatever the kids are saying these days.)

Glimpses

2011-06-06T11:29:00.000-07:00

Bookshelves made from boards balanced atop cinder blocks. They were all over my house when I was a kid. That and macrame plant holders. And end tables made from electrical cable spools. Everywhere. If you were born of hippies in the '70s, you probably tell a similar tale.

But anyway, the bookshelves. There were lots of them. And the bottom shelf was always lined with photo albums. Always.

When I moved out of my mom's house and into a cramped 2-bedroom that I shared with four other people, I insisted that we make space for my bookshelf. And I lined the bottom shelf with photo albums. If one of my room mates thought to store something else on that bottom shelf - something as brazenly incorrect as a book, for example - I would wait until said room mate had left the scene and quietly correct his mistake.

I was maybe wound just a little too tightly as a young adult.

My point is this: the photo albums were always there, always within easy reach, always being added to, often being flipped through. There is a vast collection of photos and albums between my mother and me. Or there was, up until about six years ago. Six years ago I purchased my first digital camera and effectively stopped taking pictures.

With digital, there's no need to remember to take film to the drug store to be developed. There's no need to purchase more photo albums in which to store one's collections. There's no need to reserve the bottom shelf of one's bookshelves for photo storage. There are no photo albums staring at me from across the room, inviting me to take pictures. There's no physical reminder.

And so I forget.

I have failed to document vast swaths of The Kid's childhood. And photos of The Baby's first several months are few and far between. Photos of me? The Man? Abysmal.

Which is why I've recently tasked myself with carrying my camera with me everywhere I go. It's why I've added "take a picture" to my daily to-do list. I am not even remotely skilled as a photographer, and see no need for a personal Project 365 type endeavor. But occasionally I may post a few photos here, so that you may share in the delight of watching my children grow.

Like right now. Glimpses of us from May:

This is what it looks like when we mop the kitchen floor.

This is what it looks like when The Baby spits up while I'm trying to photograph his new hat.

This is what it looks like when The Kid gets behind the camera.

This is what it looks like when The Baby "discovers" the camera.

This is what it looks like when you take a photo in bad lighting of your kids napping together.

This is what it looks like when we walk home from school on a sunny day.

This is what it looks like when we do our homework in the back yard.

This is what it looks like when my kids crack each other up.

For the record, I would still put photo albums on the bottom shelf if I had any, but now it's because they're heavy and the bottom shelf tends to be the strongest. See? There's logic there. I'm not crazy, just practical.

Excellent Alternatives to Here

2011-06-03T08:43:00.000-07:00

Throughout the week, I collect urls in a little cyber-stack on my laptop. They're things I intend to comment on because of their awesomeness/humor/snark/unbelievability/whatever... but I never quite get around to it. I present to you this week's gathering.

First order of business: Martini Mom now has a Facebook page. I just set it up and it's... well... a little lonely. Come on over and say hello, won't you. Maybe even click on the likey button if you're so inclined.

The Burning House asks what you would take with you if your house was on fire, with answers given photographically. What would you take? (Of course, this is a silly question if you take it literally - we'd all grab our kids and run - so maybe imagine that your house in on fire but burning very, very slowly, and you have time to wander around and grab 10 of your favorite things.)

The picture at the bottom of this article shows you where I'll retire someday. And this is what I'll drive, though I suppose a boat would be more practical.

In the summer, my mom always had homemade popsicles in the freezer. She used Tupperware molds and, depending on how long they'd been in there, the icy treats would start to take on a delicate plastic flavor. I'd love a set of these stainless steel molds to bring a BPA-free version of the tradition into my own home.

And finally, over at Green Legume I wrote about antibiotics in farm animals, the EWG's 2011 sunscreen guide, a book report, how to make your own baby food, and a potential reuse project for my beautiful old doors.

Ode to a teacher

2011-06-02T11:43:00.000-07:00

Photo by Robert S. Donovan

She called me into her office with a stern tone and a scowl. The laughter of my classmates hushed and my heart leaped to my throat. I was a good kid, a straight-A student. I was not accustomed to being called into offices.

I set my face into a defiant sneer, and followed her into the private room. She closed the door behind me and I took a seat, struggling to mask my apprehension as contempt. It wasn't too hard. I did not like her. She referred to blank sheets of paper as "cleanie beanies," and I was thirteen. Practically a woman, you know. I simply could not abide such childish nonsense.

"You used to be a courteous student," she began. "You were prompt, cheerful, and helpful in class."

I chewed my contraband gum at her as if to say, "Courteous student? Would a courteous student do this?" Chomp, chomp, chomp.

"But now you're always late," she continued, paying no mind whatsoever to my rebellious gum-chewing. "You're grumpy and sarcastic, you watch the clock the entire class, and, frankly, you're mean to me."

I braced myself for the punishment. The trip to the main office. The note sent home to my mom. The detention.

But then her face softened. "I'm worried about you. Is anything going on?"

I looked up to see genuine concern in her eyes, my startled mouth hung open in mid gum-smack. This was not what I'd expected. An ominous rumbling began in my insides, the sounds of despair fighting through a protective wall of sarcasm. If I opened my mouth to speak, I would cry.

"No," I managed with only a slight waver to my voice. "Nothing." I stared at the floor and angrily fought back tears. I refused to breakdown in front of Mrs. Cleanie Beanie.

She raised an eyebrow in challenge, but said nothing. She just waited, quietly, patiently, expectantly.

"Well..." I relented. "I have to move to California with my step-dad, who I hate, and I'm not very happy about it." The words spilled, tumbled from my mouth, dammed only by a gasping hiccup that warned me to stop before it was too late. But the tears had grasped their brief window of opportunity and had no intention of letting go; tears hot and fat that rushed from my eyes, streamed down my face, and dripped onto hands clasped desperately in my lap.

She stood and gathered me to her. She was a voluminous woman and her embrace completely enveloped me, my entire body folded into her soft flesh, my face pressed into her feather-pillow breasts. It was warm and safe, and I sobbed and sobbed.

My step-father had severe anger issues, resulting in a transfer by his employer from Seattle to L.A. due to an outburst at work that involved a threat to fry his coworker's balls and eat them for breakfast. I'd been miserable living with him for years, hated him for his frequent violent outbursts and hated my mother for subjecting me to him. He was a man who, when my mother finally got around to leaving him, would stalk us and threaten to chop us into pieces with an axe and require a restraining order. (Which my mother carries around in her wallet to this day, twenty years later, so that the authorities will know where to begin their search just in case she's discovered murdered in a ditch. Just. In. Case.) And I was beside myself with grief and outrage at being relocated two states away to live with this psychopath, away from my friends, away from my dad, away from my brother.

Those are the kinds of problems that a 13-year-old needs to cry all over the blouse of her choir teacher and, god bless her, she let me.

When I'd finished, she gently pulled me away from her torso to say, "If you need this to be the place where you can be angry, you go right ahead. I'll understand."

If you ask me who my favorite teacher was, she is not the one. If you ask me which teacher taught me the most, she is not the one. But if you ask me to which teacher I owe a debt of gratitude, which teacher I will never, ever forget, I will tell you a story of the one teacher who noticed, who asked what was wrong, who gave me permission to be angry.

And I will cry all over again.

On married "single" moms

2011-05-31T12:33:00.001-07:00

As a lot, moms are a sensitive bunch. We're all trying to do our best against seemingly insurmountable odds and, because we recognize the monumental importance of our task, we're understandably concerned with how well (or not) we're doing. We review and critique our performance regularly, obsessively. We want to be better, want to accomplish more, want to enjoy it more. We rarely meet our own expectations, and it leaves us a little edgy. We're prone to finding insults and criticism where none was intended, and to judging our peers to make ourselves feel better. We've created the mommy wars we all purport to despise: working mom vs. stay-at-home mom, single mom vs. married mom, clothe diaper mom vs. disposable mom.

We all probably need to lighten the hell up, and I think we all know this. I know this. And yet, as I read this post this morning, my feathers began to ruffle.

It's a tale of a woman, Ellie Hirsch of Mommy Masters, whose husband travels for work, often Monday - Friday. It's a tale of the difficulties inherent in such a situation and, ultimately, a tale of why she prefers it that way. That is the point of her post, the twist: she's in a situation that seems undesirable from an outsider's viewpoint... and yet, she prefers it that way.

Her point was not to compare herself to a single mom. And yet, she did.
"Add to the mix a traveling husband or a partner that works insane hours, and you are pretty much a single mom."

She said it almost in passing, and I doubt she put a whole lot of thought into it. It seems a simple, concise way to describe her situation: married single mom. She's alone with the kids the majority of the time. I totally get where she's coming from and why she would choose to identify as such. I swear. I really, really do.

But I've been a real single mom. And it's different.

This woman is married. She has a partner. Even if he's not always (or even often) physically present, she has a partner. I can not begin to stress how important that part right there is in distinguishing the two scenarios.

There are, of course, plenty of other factors that feed into single parenthood (financial woes, missing child support, emotional divorce baggage, strained co-parenting relationships, absent fathers, trying to date, and so on and so on). Unless you've been there, you don't know what it's like. Even if you've been there, you only know what it was like for you.

That works both ways. I certainly can't claim to know what it's like to live Ellie's life. Which is why I would never compare my set of circumstances to hers.

(Except that's kind of exactly what I'm in the process of doing, right? Comparing her set of circumstances to those of a single mom, and insisting that they're not the same. It appears I am a pot. "Kettle, you're black!" I say. Still, I shall forge ahead.)

So while I can acknowledge some similarities between her situation and that of a single mom (extended periods alone with the kids) taking care of the kids alone is one symptom of being a single parent. One out of about one thousand. And I think that's why we single moms (and former single moms) get our panties in a bunch when such comparisons are made: it feels like a very difficult situation is being over-simplified. I sincerely doubt that was Ellie's intent, and yet I'm sure that's how it made some of us (sensitive bunch) feel.

It's a little like suggesting that throwing up for a week straight with the stomach flu gives one insight into experiencing chemotherapy treatment.

Of course, a woman who uses cancer treatment as an analogy probably isn't fit to give advice on appropriate comparisons.

Check out Ellie's blog, Mommy Masters, and her Facebook page. (Since I've singled her out unfairly, it seems only right that I give her a plug.) And, since I've only barely scratched the surface of the Sometimes Single Mom topic, check out a couple of Singlemommyhood.com's posts on the topic: "Do Sometimes Single Moms Offend You?" and "Married Moms Who Feel Like Single Moms? We Understand."

Insecurities and better parenting

2011-05-27T13:56:00.000-07:00

I didn't feel threatened when things got serious between The Ex and the woman who would eventually become his second wife. I'm confident in my mommy awesomeness, so another "mommy" in the mix didn't concern me. Plus, as the daughter of divorced parents, I've had plenty of experience with both good and bad step-parents. I know that even the most beloved of the bunch were never competing for my affections. Suggesting that children only have room to love one mommy figure is like saying there's only room to love one grandparent. So I wasn't worried at all. In fact, I was excited and hopeful, full of idealistic visions of The Kid being adored by not one, not two, but three parents. They say it takes a village, and my kid's village was about to get bigger. Lucky boy! (It didn't exactly work out that way, but that's a tale for another day.)

The Ex has had a slightly different reaction to The Man.

Initially, he seemed unconcerned? uninterested? when The Man moved in. But then little things - good little things - started happening that, I think, got under The Ex's skin a little. Things like The Man teaching The Kid to throw a football, buying him a soccer goal for the back yard and kicking the ball around with him, offering to teach him to play guitar. They were simply interacting the way people who live in the same house do, but The Ex had always struggled with this part of parenting - the interacting part - and some of his insecurities were triggered.

His reaction started with a barbed comment here and there:

An accusation that I thought The Man was a better influence than The Ex on The Kid, which turned into an all out attack on my dad's parenting abilities.
Implying I don't know what, exactly, about The Man's parenting abilities based on the fact that his daughters live with their mom in Texas.
A lengthy tirade about "hippie bullshit" hybrids (The Man drives a Prius).

You get the picture.

But there was another reaction: The Ex started showing more of an interest in The Kid. He started expressing an interest in helping with home work and actually showed up for things like teacher-parent conferences. He called me and apologized for leaving me to do all the "real" parenting while he was busy being a buddy. And, for the first time in all his years of talking about focusing on The Kid more, he's actually taken a couple very small, very tentative steps toward actually focusing on The Kid more.

At first, I was irritated. His motives were all wrong. I wanted him to focus on The Kid because he's a good father, not because of a desire to win some misguided pissing contest. But you know what? He's not a good father. He'll tell you that himself. It doesn't come naturally to him and wasn't anything he ever actually wanted to do with his life (would've been nice if he'd told me that before we decided to have a child). But if he's going to try to be better - really, really try - who cares about the motives? I'll take what I can get.

Hippie bullshit

2011-05-26T12:18:00.000-07:00

Photo by Muffet

The Ex and I don't argue often. For the most part, we keep our interactions brief but friendly. We are perfectly comfortable sharing space at The Kid's soccer games and birthday parties. But, like any divorced co-parents, we don't always agree. Sometimes we argue, sometimes we annoy the hell out of each other, and sometimes we completely piss each other off. And we have very different ways of dealing with it. I generally talk to him about whatever the issue is, and I usually even use my inside voice. He generally lets me know something's bothering him by lobbing a completely irrelevant personal attack. To his credit, he (almost) always apologizes later and, to my credit, I (almost) never take it personally. And (almost) always, the lashing out belies an underlying insecurity.

Look at me, playing therapist.

For most of our divorced relationship, the attacks have revolved around me and and my "elitist college-educated friends." ("Attacks" is probably too strong a word, but I'm just going to go with it. Who has time for a thesaurus?) The Ex, as you can probably guess, is not college-educated while I am. I don't have an issue with that, but my guess is that he does.

Lately, though, the attacks have taken a new turn. (And I can't help but notice that the origin of the turn coincides quite nicely with The Man's taking up residence in my house. Me thinks we've triggered a new insecurity.)

Look at me, playing therapist again.

During a rather heated child-support conversation last month, The Ex suggested that the food I eat (mostly whole and organic) is "hippie bullshit;" that my concerns about the nutritional value of the slurpees and beef jerky he feeds our son is "hippie bullshit;" that my concern about pesticides and things like BPA is "hippie bullshit;" that the Prius The Man drives is "hippie bullshit;" that limiting time spent playing video games is "hippie bullshit." Even my choice of milk was scrutinized:

The Ex: "I've seen what you have on your windowsill."

Me: [confused silence]

The Ex: "Next to the front door..."

Me: [confused silence]

The Ex: "Those milk bottles..."

Me: "Oh." [confused silence] "Oh?"

The Ex: "...all lined up on the windowsill like a badge of honor."

Me: [nearly laughing tea out my nose] "Badge of honor?! What are you talking about? They're on my windowsill so that I remember to return them to the store. There's a buck-fifty return on those babies."

The Ex: [scoff] "I don't think I should have to pay more for your hippie bullshit."

You might notice that none of these has anything to do with what we were actually talking about: child support. Except, I guess, for his notion that he's somehow overpaying support because I buy milk in glass bottles. (And if you knew how little he's been paying in support, you would understand just how ridiculous that assertion is.)

True to our respective natures, he apologized later and I didn't take it personally (much), though it was a full month before I could pour milk without muttering incredulously under my breath.

But seriously, you guys. If I'm ever in need of a badge of honor, I'm totally going with milk bottles.

A game of telephone

2011-05-23T08:38:00.000-07:00

I was in the shower when he walked into the bathroom to give me the message.

"Your mom called to say that if you need a printer for pictures of The Kid's banana - whoa, that sounds weird - you can use hers."

I giggled. "Pictures of The Kid's banana" doesn't sound right out of context. (It's for a school project and involves taking pictures of a stuffed banana engaged in various activities. Perfectly innocent, I promise.)

And then I grinned. "You answered the phone?!"

"I did. There was a sleeping baby..."

"You answered the phone!" I repeated. "You live here!"

The Man moved into our house over a year ago. Since then, we have put a vegetable garden in the back yard. We have planted a beautiful Japanese maple. We have gutted and remodeled a kitchen. We have had a baby. We have assembled freshly purchased Ikea furniture, people. We have done these things together, in this house.

And yet he still isn't comfortable answering the phone.

"You can answer the phone, you know," I've said on more than one occasion, sometimes as an invitation and sometimes as a plea. But the resulting conversation is always the same.

"It's not my phone."

"Yes it is. You live here."

"But it's not my phone."

"It's the home phone. It's our home. It's our phone."

The conversation always ends with him shaking his head and the phone continuing to ring.

I can't pretend that I don't understand. I own the house. My name is on the mortgage. I look around the room I'm sitting in, and all of these things are my things. My furniture. My decorations. My dishes. Granted, after 3 cross-country moves in 2 years, he arrived at my doorstep with relatively few possessions. Still, I think it would feel more like home to him if we'd moved into a new place together. Even if we still filled that new place with mostly my stuff, we'd both be starting there together. Instead, he had to try to insert himself into a home already in progress.

Sometimes I wish we could empty the house and start all over; empty all of our possessions onto the front lawn and then rearrange them inside in some way that only he and I could imagine. I would love to repaint the living and dining rooms a color that we choose together; would love to reinvent our bedroom; would love to create a place he feels is as much his as it is mine. It's just not in the cards right now.

But today, he answered the phone.

Sure, maybe it was because The Baby was sleeping and, with me in the shower, his only option was to answer it. But he answered it.

Because he lives here. In our house.

It's a small thing, but it's a big small thing.

The relationship box

2011-05-19T23:04:00.000-07:00

I'm in the middle of a major basement cleaning project, going through old boxes and getting rid of a ton of stuff that I just no longer need in an effort to make more room for The Man and his two daughters (who will hopefully be coming to visit this summer). Most of it is quick and easy: Keep the Halloween decorations; donate the extra vacuum cleaner; keep the juicer; dispose of the 13 half-empty paint cans.

But then I came to those sentimental boxes. Those ones are always doozies, aren't they? The high school yearbooks (keep), the dance recital costumes (toss), the picture my little brother drew for me when he was 5 (keep), my prom dress (toss). And that box that everyone has: the past relationships box. What to do with that?

My relationship box, thankfully, is actually quite small. Once an avid letter saver, I've long since parted with the hangings on of all my past relationships. It's not that I'm bitter or want to forget any of them. Quite the contrary. I just don't need the notes, the cards, the ticket stubs anymore. I have completely moved on from each and every one of those relationships, and so their various detritus no longer hold any sentimental value. I do keep the pictures, but those never made it into the relationship box in the first place; they were never treated as special or private or personal (clearly, no nudie pics in my collection). The photos are just more evidence of every day life, no different from the photos of of camping trips and birthday parties and Christmas trees they're flanked by. And so those stay. But everything else made its way into the recycling bin a long time ago.

With one exception.

I'm still hanging on to a box from my ex-husband. Inside are mementos from our dating and married years that, at the time, seemed worthy of saving. I keep it now not for sentimental reasons (if I were at all sentimental about our relationship, I probably wouldn't have torn up my wedding dress to make the most awesome Corpse Bride costume EVER). It doesn't serve as a monument to our marriage, but as a peacekeeper to our divorce. Here's why:

Most of the time, I'm mildly annoyed with my ex-husband. We generally get along fine but, you know, he bugs me. He is my ex-husband after all. And periodically, that mild annoyance becomes something much, much more, and it's all I can do to keep from poking his eyes out with toothpicks. In those instances, it's helpful to remember that, at one time, I considered him a decent human being. That's where the box comes in.

I don't have to physically refer to the box. I don't have to dig it out of its storage tub and pull off the flowered top to flick through any of its contents. In fact, I've only opened it twice since our divorce seven years ago. Simply knowing it exists, knowing that there is concrete evidence of our relationship in my home is enough. Once upon a time, I liked that guy. Loved him, even, though it makes me cringe to even utter the word in reference to him. And if I found something to like about him once, he must not be a wholly terrible guy. Remembering the way I saw him then helps me to tolerate him better now.

The relationship box turned up yesterday as I was cleaning. I paused when I saw it, wondering for a moment if I should just finally dump it once and for all. I opened it and read a letter from my ex-husband. Then another. And another. It made me uncomfortable. I'm so far removed from that time in my life that I felt like I was reading someone else's private letters. I stopped reading and put the lid back on the box. I almost threw the whole thing away - all the letters, all the birthday and anniversary cards, all the dried flowers. But it reminded me, again, that we were once a couple, a pair, a team. We once enjoyed each other's company and were able to get along on a regular basis. It reminded me that he is a fellow human being and not just an ex-husband to be tolerated. And it occurred to me that I have many, many more years of co-parenting to get through with this guy, and that I'm going to want to poke his eyes out with toothpicks many more times before we're through. I'm going to need the perspective contained within that box.

What about you? Do you hang on to mementos from relationships past? Or are you a burn all evidence kind of person? And you divorced ladies out there: what did you do with your wedding dress?

Ten books that changed my life

2011-05-18T11:57:00.000-07:00

I am terrible at putting together "best of" lists. I treat the exercise, like I do so many things in my life, as a test to be aced. This brings on far too much anxiety, contemplation, and general wringing of hands, and an answer that is this... no, that... no, wait, I forgot about this... shit... wait... can I start over? Which is no fun for anyone.

So today I gave myself permission to write an incomplete list of books that have changed my life (or at least really, really moved me in some way). I limited myself to 10, and just went with the first ones that popped into my mind.

So. Much. Easier.

1. Through the Looking Glass, Lewis Carroll
This is the first book I remember reading as a child that thoroughly blew my mind. It was so odd. So upside down. It opened my eyes to the beauty of playing with logic.

2. The Bible
This is the book that convinced me that I am most definitely NOT a religious person. A bit more on that here.

3. The Little Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
I received a copy of The Little Prince for my birthday when I was 7 or 8. Maybe 9? Somewhere in there. I read it, and found it utterly bizarre. I did not understand it, and I did not like that. I was a scholarly sort, and I did not appreciate being made to feel foolish by a book. Especially one with (such amazing!) illustrations, which, in my mind, meant it should've been easily digestible by a child. When I finished reading it, I set it on my nightstand and scowled my mistrust at it. Stupid purposefully obtuse book, I thought. I audibly "hmph"ed at it. And then, ever so quietly as if to sneak up on it, I picked the book back up and spent the rest of the afternoon rereading the entire thing. I was in love. The Little Prince was my first alluringly mysterious boyfriend.

4. To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee
To Kill a Mockingbird was the first book that really made me question myself. I read it indignantly, knowing that I would have been an Atticus or a Scout if I'd lived through similar circumstances. I assuredly patted myself on the back, congratulating myself for not being an ignorant fool. But somewhere along the way it occurred to me that I had the distinct advantage of being raised in a different time, by progressive parents, in a community where our views were generally accepted as "correct." I began to wonder what kind of person I'd be without all of that. Would I be someone who could identify and set aside ingrained, unjust stereotypes? And, if so, would I be principled and brave enough to stand up for what I believed in, like Atticus Finch? Heavy questions for a young teenager. Heavy, useful questions.

5. A Small Place, Jamaica Kincaid
Perspective. This book completely changed the way I look at the world when I travel.

6. Hiroshima, John Hersey
I read this book in the 5th grade, and it terrified me. A budding pacifist, it solidified my stance.

7. Jitterbug Perfume, Tom Robbins

Oh, how I love Tom Robbins. As a teenager I'd read bits and pieces of several of Robbins' novels from my dad's collection, but it wasn't until I was an adult that I read one from beginning to end. Jitterbug Perfume was the first, and it made me want to read every. single. thing. the man has ever written. Twice.

8. Bastard Out of Carolina, Dorothy Allison
There are very few similarities between my fairly average childhood and the horrific childhood of Bone, the story's main character. But where there were similarities, Allison put words to emotions I'd previously been unable to explain or define. I was able to forgive a lot and move on after reading this book.

9. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Douglas Adams
"The Vogon ship hung in the air in exactly the way a brick wouldn't" stopped me dead in my tracks and made me want to be a more clever writer.

10. Atlas Shrugged, Ayn Rand
I hate Ayn Rand so much that I insist on pronouncing her first name as "Anne" just to piss her off. When I was gifted this book in high school, I'd never met a book I didn't finish. And I was still firmly entrenched in the belief that if I didn't like what people smarter than me called a classic, it was only because I wasn't smart enough to "get it." And I was really not getting Atlas Shrugged. I fundamentally disagreed with everything Dagny Taggart stood for. I kept waiting for the narrative to turn; kept waiting for some hint that Rand was presenting Dagny to us as an example of what not to do. I held out hope, even through those incessant mind-numbing soapboxing monologues. But, in the end, I had to admit defeat. I didn't like a single thing about the book; a book which, by many, was considered a classic. Clearly, I just wasn't smart enough. And then, years later in college, my favorite literature professor off-handedly referred to Ayn Rand as crap. I was shocked and delighted and vindicated, and was never again so quick to mistrust my own opinions. (I also no longer felt obligated to spend my precious time finishing books that I was whole-heartedly not enjoying.) Thanks for the lessons, Anne.

Now it's your turn. What books have left a lasting impression on you?

Dear The Baby,

2011-04-28T18:05:00.000-07:00

Today you are 8-months-old, and 20 pounds. I know that you are 20 pounds today because I just took you to the doctor. Again. For the, I don't know, 140th time in eight weeks. You have been very sick, my little man. It started in your bowels with the flu, and then moved into your ears and nose and throat and lungs and beautiful blue eyeballs. You've been filled full of naturopathic and homeopathic remedies and, on their failure, antibiotics. You've been nebulized and humidified. You've cried loudly in protest, and then silently when your sore throat stole your voice. You've suffered through countless nose wipes and eye wipes and diaper rashed butt wipes. You've been so sick, I actually quit my job to stay home with you, since I was taking so much time off to do so anyway. It's not been pretty around here. And yet, through it all, you've remained a happy, easy-going baby, quick to smile and flirt with anyone who pauses to gaze at your precious snot-glazed face.

You've mostly mastered sitting up, but prefer the army crawl over the baby crawl. It doesn't slow you down any. Your daycare teachers all commented on how extremely mobile you are for a kid who isn't actually mobile. I can't leave you unattended for more than a moment anymore, lest you drag yourself across the floor towards that extension cord you so love to gnaw on. Luckily for the cord, you've yet to sprout any teeth. Luckily for me, your grunts get increasingly more excited the closer you get to something potentially lethal. You give yourself away every time.

Your introduction to solids was substantially delayed thanks to the bug that's been raging its way through your system, but you're happily gobbling up rice cereal, bananas, and apples. Next up is carrots. I know, right? CARROTS! It is an exciting life you lead, my child. The thrill of spoons and chewing has made you ever-so-slightly bored with the boob. I suspect you may wean yourself a little earlier than the one-year goal I've set for you. But whatevs. You're not much fun to nurse anyway. You buck and bounce and kick and grunt, prompting your dad to compare the spectacle to a rodeo. A rodeo on my boob.

Your favorite song is Itsy, Bitsy Spider, your favorite activity is splashing in the tub, your favorite "trick" is shaking your head as if to condescendingly say "no, no, no, you're doing it all wrong," and your favorite person is most definitely your big brother.

Also? You are adorable.

Happy 8-months, baby boy.

Love,
Mama

State of the union

2011-04-26T23:23:00.000-07:00

Our decision to have me stay home with The Baby means that we are now a one income family (with four kids to support). My previous salary was not negligible, so this is quite a big shift. On top of that, The Man's income is variable. Some months there's plenty; other months there's quite a bit less than plenty. Luckily, he and I both have a lot of experience with frugality. Where cutting back is torture for some people, for me it feels more like returning home after a long vacation. It's not necessarily where I want to be, but it's very familiar territory.

We've taken a few steps to mitigate the potential financial woes. Nonessential expenses are being reviewed and cut as needed (today we said goodbye to cable, which really should've been gone a long time ago given how rarely we turn on the TV). The Man is talking about getting a second job, at least until his primary paycheck starts perking back up. I'll be doing some freelance writing for Groupon beginning in May. And The Kid is doing his part by telling everyone we're broke.

Really. Everyone. But not like he's bothered by it; more like he thinks it's a neat adventure.

And while my opinion on the matter might change as time goes on, right now I happen to agree with him. This is, indeed, a pretty neat adventure.

How I became a SAHM

2011-04-23T11:41:00.000-07:00

And just like that, I quit my job.

True, my contract was up in a few days anyway, but they'd asked me to stay on longer. Initially I'd agreed, because it seemed right in a reflexive sort of way. (Grown ups have jobs, right?) But it didn't feel right. It had never felt right.

For the past two months I'd tried to ignore the nagging sense that I was doing the wrong thing. The job was fine, and we could certainly use the money. But I hated it in a way I've never hated a job before. I wasn't hating the specific job, I was hating working in general. And I was hating that I was hating working--was silently berating myself daily--because what kind of whiny elitist bullshit is that?

Turns out, it was sincere whiny elitist bullshit. I've always been a career kind of woman; a work-a-holic, never take a vacation or a sick day kind of woman. And then I had another baby and things just... shifted.

Though that's not entirely true. Things had been shifting for a while, and I'd been becoming increasingly dissatisfied with life as I knew it. Having another baby was just the last nail in my corporate whore coffin.

Still, I took the job when it was offered because that's just what grown ups do. But I was sad. Profoundly sad. My mood did not go unnoticed and The Man would occasionally ask if I just wanted to quit, and my heart would leap into my throat. But always I would temper my response with reason, with worry, with guilt-induced nay saying.

But my attitude wasn't the only problem with my job. The Baby has been sick non-stop since entering day care, which is to be expected, I know. But he's been so sick that there have been multiple weeks during which I've been able to work only one or two days. That combined with my necessary late start time and relatively long breast-pumping breaks meant that I was barely logging enough hours to cover day care and parking expenses. We were basically breaking even. And for what? Reduced milk production on my part, excessive illness on The Baby's part, and a general pain in the ass on every body's part.

And so last night, facing yet another week with The Baby too sick for daycare, The Man and I rather quickly and simply came to the conclusion that it just wasn't worth it.

And just like that, I quit my job.

Brought to you by the number 10 (and the letter F)

2011-02-09T12:03:00.000-08:00

I used to be ahead of the curve. There were cool things out in the world to be found, and I found them. At least some of them. Things like Twitter and Etsy - back when they were just babies - both of which I introduced to my tallest former coworker (he's the inspiration behind posts like this and this and this). It was probably another Twitter that he was expecting when he asked me to participate in the Top Ten series he and his wife are featuring on their blog, Orange Juice, Etc. Instead, I gave him a book about garbage. That's what 35 years and a new baby will do to a person. Still, it was nice to be featured. You should visit the list, and wander around their blog a bit while you're there. They have nice things to say about food and fashion and photography and family. Because their blog is brought to you by the letter F.

And now, a few more nice things that didn't quite make my top 10:

1. Remember the Milk. The Man turned me on to Remember the Milk, an online task manager. I'm using the free version, which means I have a set number of lists whose names can't be changed: Inbox, Personal, Work, Study. No big deal, because I don't need more than four lists, and it's easy enough for me to remember that "study" is my home improvement list. You can add due dates, tags, priorities, repeating tasks, notes, etc. It is the only way I remember what I'm doing between diaper changes and nursing breaks. The site itself isn't pretty enough for a place like Orange Juice, but otherwise it's a winner.

2. Reddit. If The Man is reading this, he is now scoffing loudly. I actually hate Reddit. I keep trying, but I just can't handle the user interface. And there's too much crap to weed through to get to the good stuff. But I'm pretty sure I'm doing it wrong. The Man is a bit of a Reddit junkie, and has finding the worthy parts down to a science. I just wait for him to laugh or raise an intrigued eyebrow and then insist that he share. I love Reddit vicariously.

3. Magazines. I love to read, but very rarely have more than 3 minutes at a time to do so. Since it's thoroughly unenjoyable to read novels in 3-minute increments, I turn to magazines. My current favorites are Natural Home Magazine, Ready Made, Fresh Home, and City Arts - Seattle (free!).

4. On the Boards. THE best artsy venue in Seattle, hands down. Also the worst, depending on the night. But that's why I love it. OtB books the up-and-comers, the unique, the envelope pushers of modern dance, theater, and music. Sometimes the experiment fails. But more often it's absolutely mind blowing.

5. Making things with my hands. Some inspiration from the "with my hands" category of my Google reader: New Dress a Day, I Could Make That, Sew Mama Sew, How About Orange.

6. Cheating. Because there's not always time to thrift, a couple good online options are always handy. Anthropologie is still my fave, but unemployment and $200 tshirts don't mix. Thankfully, there's Ruche. (And thankfully, there are friends who send me links to things like Ruche. Thanks, Kelly!) Mod Cloth is also a good time.

7. Olives. Especially green ones. Stuffed with blue cheese. Swimming in a dirty vodka martini. Drool.

8. Glass. I love my Life Factory glass water bottle!

9. Elk and Boar. I went to junior high and high school with Elk. I tried really hard to hate her when I was 13. It should've been easy. I was hormonal and insecure and she was beautiful and talented. And? And? The boy I liked? He liked her. Was completely smitten with her, in fact. Hmph. It should've been so easy. And yet, I couldn't. A teenage girl can hate on anyone, but I simply could not hate on her. That's how entirely un-unlikable she is. She's still got her pipes, and she and Boar are playing around town. There's also an EP out, I hear.

Sleepless in Seattle

2011-02-08T15:00:00.000-08:00

Of course The Baby would choose this week to flip out. This week, with his dad is out of town for a mediation with his ex. I would probably resent The Man for his absence, but given the choice between a screaming baby and a screaming ex, I'll take the baby. The Man's definitely got it worse.

Thanks for helping me keep it in perspective, The Man. (But also hurry home please.)

It started yesterday innocently enough. The Baby woke up an hour into what is usually a two-hour nap. But he woke up giggling, intentionally misleading me with his post nap cheer. Sneaky little bastard.

Within 20 minutes it was clear that all was not well. He was clearly still tired, unless he had some other reason for repeatedly attempting to claw his eyes out of their sockets. But he was not at all interested in going back to sleep. None of the usual tricks worked. Not nursing him, not rocking him, not swaddling him, not even the hallowed plastic nipple could pacify. I even tried shouting at him in frustration. Repeatedly. Nothing worked.

I gave up and decided to let him be cranky. I was certain it would only be the usual hour or two before he was ready for another nap. No big deal. In the meantime, I used all my experienced mommy tricks to keep him entertained and distracted from his own rancor. It worked (mostly) for the next hour, at which point it was time to head to The Kid's school for our monthly Roots of Empathy class.

He nearly zonked out on the walk to school, but the circle of 28 children smiling and waving and clapping seemed to perk him back up. Coincidentally, the theme for the visit was sleep. I told the entire class that The Baby is usually a very good sleeper.

That was a horrible mistake. My public arrogance angered the sandman, and he has refused to visit ever since.

The rest of the day was a tornado of screeches and screams and squirms. A day of vicious eye rubbing and frantic thumb sucking. But no naps. He usually sleeps five or six hours during the day, over the course of several naps. Yesterday, he slept a total of 75 minutes over the course of 12 hours.

When he finally fell asleep at 8pm, I slumped into a chair and nibbled on a cold dinner. The Kid, dejected after eating his own dinner alone, started getting ready for bed. I figured I had at least a couple hours, given the fact that The Baby hadn't slept all damn day, but he was up again at 8:45. The three of us piled into The Kid's bed, where The Baby was relatively entertained by The Kid's animated singing of nonsense lullabies. Finally, at 10:00, they both were in bed for the night.

Of course, by "for the night" I actually mean until 1:30 in the morning when The Baby woke up to eat. This is normal; there's usually a 2am-ish feeding. But he also usually goes back to sleep after that feeding, rather than groaning and grunting and screaming until 3:30. For two hours I crept around in the dark repeatedly soothing The Baby back into a restless sleep. Nothing worked for long, and soon the low gurgle that began in his throat would swell until it leaped from his mouth in a sharp scream. I was in the bathroom when one such gurgle started and, in my hurry to get back to his bedside before the scream erupted, I tripped over The Man's slippers and launched myself full-speed into the end of The Baby's bassinet, causing a chain reaction that ended with a lamp skidding off the edge of The Man's night stand and crashing into the wall on its way to the floor. Because I am awesome.

He woke up again at 6:00 to eat, and never really went back to sleep. Today has been more of the same. It's a little better, but not much. My mom is coming by after work to offer some relief, and The Man will be home tomorrow (assuming Dallas weather behaves and allows his plane to depart). Just a few more hours...

Excellent Alternatives to Here

2011-02-04T10:50:00.000-08:00

Sun Come Up Trailer from Sun Come Up on Vimeo.

*****
Speaking of climate change... Wow. That's a lot of snow.

*****
The USDA has decided Monsanto's genetically engineered alfalpha shall go unregulated. Alfalpha is an open-pollinated crop, which means conventional and organic farms will be at risk of contamination. Read more here. And, if you're so inclined, email the White House and let Obama know that you want to maintain the ability to consume organic meat and dairy from animals that haven't been fed genetically engineered crops.

*****
If you saw my post on Wednesday, you already know why you should choo-choo-choose Al Franken to be your valentine. If you missed it, check out the Open Source Democracy Foundation's website for details.

*****
I was 10-years-old when Chernobyl happened. It terrified me. It still does. Chernobyl, 25 years later.

*****
Recently featured on NPR (I have a HUGE crush on NPR), the Born This Way blog is "a photo/essay project for gay adults (male and female) to submit pictures from their childhood (roughly ages 2 to 12) - with snapshots that capture them, innocently, showing the beginnings of their innate LGBT selves." The photos are delightful and the stories insightful.

*****
And finally, at Green Legume I talked about turning down the heat, a challenge to live without plastic for the entire month of February, dumpster diving, and why your soap should be banned.

Why I'm putting the moves on Al Franken

2011-02-02T14:19:00.000-08:00

You care about net neutrality. I know this, because you are currently using the Internet. It's neat, isn't it? You type in a few words here, click on a button there, and off you go to a world where information is everywhere, iPhones are wildly inappropriate, and people spend weeks animating songs about their cats. There's nothing else like it in the whole wide world, and you love it. This is net neutrality.

What isn't net neutrality is being charged more by your Internet service provider for certain activities (like streaming a Netflix movie); what isn't net neutrality is setting up a tiered pay system, with those sites that can pay top-tier prices earning faster load times ; what isn't net neutrality is data discrimination. Net neutrality is what allows Etsy to compete with Target; Jolie Holland to compete with Katy Perry; entrepreneurs to compete with Microsoft; West Seattle Blog to compete with The Seattle Times; news in general to compete with Fox.

How to handle net neutrality is being battled out right now, both in the U.S. and in Canada (hi, Canada!) Who opposes net neutrality? Those who stand to make money off net not-neutrality - and those with an insane amount of money to throw into lobbying efforts: telecom giants like AT&T and Verizon.

Who supports net neutrality? Me. You. A handful of senators, like Al Franken (and Washington state's own Maria Cantwell!). And a rapidly growing grassroots organization called The Open Source Democracy Foundation, founded and operated by a group of smart, concerned, and wickedly sexy Reddit users.

Here's where it gets fun.

OSDF is courting two senators for Valentine's Day: Al Franken (supports net neutrality) and Kay Hutchison (opposes it), but they need our help. OSDF is collecting handmade Valentines from supporters, and will hand deliver! them to the senators' offices on Valentines Day. For realsies! You can make your own valentine and send it to OSDF to be included, or fill out the form on their site and have totally awesome OSDF volunteers make the valentine for you. Visit the OSDF's site for more information on why each senator was selected and how to participate. But act quickly! The number of valentines to make is rapidly growing, so I suspect they'll have to cut it off soon.

"Now is an incredibly important time to make your voice heard for Net Neutrality. With the approval of the NBC/Comcast merger, court challenges from Verizon and MetroPCS to the FCC’s Net Neutrality rules, and Rep. Marsha Blackburn’s legislation to strip the FCC of any authority to enforce Net Neutrality rules, we need to demonstrate that we are not backing down."

-The Open Source Democracy Foundation Blog

For more information on OSDF, visit their website, blog, Facebook page, Reddit feed, or come have dinner with me and The Man (he's the sexy in the founding team mentioned above, and a damn fine cook to boot).

Already?

2011-02-01T14:47:00.000-08:00

The Baby turned 5-months-old on Friday. Days earlier, he was happily perched on my knee watching The Kid dance around the living room. He was balancing there easily, almost on his own. He'll have this whole sitting up thing perfected before too much longer. And then, before you know it, he'll be walking and talking and sneaking whiskey from the liquor cabinet.

I begged him to stop growing so quickly. "Take your time," I encouraged. "Stop getting bigger, " I pleaded. "Look at these cute feet," I gushed. "Look at your sweet face," I cooed. "Stay just like this forever!" I demanded.

But The Baby was skeptical. "Just like this?" he babbled. And then, as if to prove his point, he belched a waterfall of curdled milk down my leg and into my shoe.

Fine. Maybe outgrowing a few baby-related tendencies wouldn't be such a bad thing. Smart ass.

Beauty, the beast

2011-01-26T10:43:00.000-08:00

I study my baby as he drifts off to sleep. He has a smattering of small pimples around his sweet mouth - the result, I'm sure, of drool and spit up trapped beneath a pacifier. There is a a blemish of some sort in the fold of his soft neck - probably the result of more trapped milk. His adorable head is lumpy in some spots and flat in others. The dark fuzz that was born on his ears has rubbed off, but the small patch of hair in the small of his back is still hanging on. His thighs are deliciously fat.

He is perfect, of course; his "flaws," if they can even be labeled as such, are every bit as beautiful as his long eye lashes, toothless grin, and mellow disposition.

He sighs contentedly in his sleep, blissfully unaware of even the concept of physical beauty, let alone the impact it will have on his life. I pause for a moment to savor the moment. It will be fleeting, I know. In just a few short years, he'll worry that the color of his eyes are wrong, or his nose is too flat, or his ears are crooked. The pimples will become embarrassing; the hair patch a locker room taunt. Like all of us, he will become overly critical of some physical attribute he deems flawed. And for a moment - and hopefully only a moment - he'll wonder if the relative attractiveness of his visage defines him, and he'll begin to hide the less desirable bits of himself from the world's judgmental gaze. (And even with all this, he'll get off easy in the beauty race because he's a he.)

But for now, beauty to him is a lactating breast, a good swaddle, a powerful belch, a clean diaper; things that actually matter. And that is a beautiful thing.

I've shared this video before via Facebook, but I think it's worth a repeat.

Excellent Alternatives to Here

2011-01-21T17:57:00.000-08:00

Throughout the week, I collect urls in a little cyber-stack on my laptop. They're things I intend to comment on because of their awesomeness/humor/snark/unbelievability/whatever... but I never quite get around to it. I present to you this week's gathering:

First of all, here's the Salon article ("Regrets of a stay-at-home mom") that prompted the rant I posted yesterday. If you read the article, don't skip the comments. That's where the real crazy comes out.

When I read this article, I excitedly told The Man: "We could have two suns by 2012!" Of course, what he heard was "We could have two sons by 2012!" I must learn to phrase my sentences better.

Here's a cool writing prompt site for all you writing types.

And here are lots of things I'll never get around to making. Like this stuffed animal lamp. (I might actually get to this one, because I really want to make something that I can call a stiffy.) This homemade chai concentrate sounds yummy. And these fashionable paper doll magnets are stereotypically girly enough to be insulting (but I LOVE them).

Over at my other blog (You forgot I had another blog, didn't you? It's okay. I did too for a while there.) I've been blowing off the dust and tap-tap-taping at the mic to see if anyone's still listening (they're not), and finally getting around to posting again. This week, I talked about teeny, tiny houses, tea bags, and meatless Mondays.

Happy weekend, all!

Another parenting rant, wherin I call bullshit. Repeatedly.

2011-01-20T13:41:00.000-08:00

Mothers who choose to return to work after having children are selfish narcissists who value money and status over their own flesh and blood, and who probably shouldn't have had children in the first place if they were just going to hand them over to be raised by day care providers.

Mothers who choose to stay home after having children are lazy, unmotivated women looking for a free ride who spend their days watching movies and getting pedicures, and whose audacity to be satisfied by motherhood alone has set the feminist movement back at least 20 years.

And women who return to work part-time, or who work from home, or who stay home for only a couple of years and then reclaim their previous careers? Well, you people are just too difficult to categorize so we hate you too just to be on the safe side.

Welcome to the world of motherhood where no matter what you choose to do with yourself, it's wrong - a fact made abundantly clear by the reaction to Katy Read's Salon article, "Regrets of a stay-at-home mom." Of course, Read probably expected the shit storm. As The Man pointed out, there are few topics more emotionally charged and polarizing than how women should behave as mothers. But Read put herself in a uniquely vulnerable spot in the debate as a woman who hadn't done what either side wanted her to do. She offended working mothers by opting out of the workforce in the first place, and she offended SAHMs by suggesting that, in the end, staying home had been the wrong choice. And while the commenters raged back and forth, lobbing insults at Read and at each other, the actual point of her essay was nearly lost entirely.

Fourteen years after opting out to focus on her children, Read now finds herself divorced and needing to reenter the workforce, but is finding it extremely difficult due to the gaping hole in her resume (despite the fact that she worked part time during those fourteen years). Her essay was intended to be a cautionary tale to new mothers considering leaving the workforce to focus on kids: it's difficult to jump back in again should you want (or need) to. You will not be able to pick up right where you left off. Your salary and career trajectory will suffer. And, should your situation change - whether through divorce, or a spouse's illness/death/layoff - you may find yourself unable to provide for your children.

Unable to provide for your children. That's a terrifying thought. It need not change your mind about staying home, but it's something that ought to be considered as you debate your options.

In other words, Read has a valid point.

But since so many of the comments devolved into attacks on working mothers who "aren't interested in raising their children," I have something to say:

Not all working mothers want to work; for many, staying home is not an option. Making sure there's enough money coming in the door to put food on the table IS raising your children. But some women are working by choice, and there are any number of reasons they would chose to do so over staying home. I can pretty much guarantee that "I don't love my kids enough" is NOT one of those reasons. Working mothers are busting their asses out there. They work a full day at a busy office where they are probably not being paid what they're worth, and then they come home to cram the same amount of household chores and parenting duties into a fraction of the hours. They have to prove themselves EVERY SINGLE DAY to their employers who are fearful that their commitment to their families will impinge on their commitment to their jobs, and then they have to prove themselves EVERY SINGLE DAY to their families and other mothers (and themselves) who fear that their commitment to their jobs is impinging on their commitment to their families. They perform complex scheduling acrobatics to make sure they devote enough time to their careers and to their families. To even begin to suggest that these women are not raising their children is bullshit. To suggest that these women are not committed to their families is bullshit. To suggest that these women are bad mothers for not sacrificing hard won careers in favor of devoting every minute to the comfort of their children is bullshit. To suggest that the children will be less confident, less intelligent, or any less well-adjusted as a result of mommy's job is bullshit. What they do every day is really fucking hard, and they deserve more than a little bit of credit for being able to pull it off.

And since so many other comments devolved into attacks on SAHMs who are taking the easy road at best and short-changing their gender at worst, I have something else to say:

SAHMs are busting their asses out (or in?) there. They've sacrificed their careers and financial independence to pour everything they have into their kids. They have to prove themselves EVERY SINGLE DAY to their families and other mothers (and themselves) who assume that being "just" a mom means their days are quick and easy, full of smiling babies and celebrity gossip. They spend hours in relative isolation, weathering countless diaper changes, incessant questions, and epic temper tantrums (and yes, smiling babies). They spend entire days devoted to your least favorite things: doing dishes, folding laundry, cooking food that's scorned by fickle taste buds, and pretending to be interested in the minute details of Batman's various weapons. They don't get a salary, sick days, lunch breaks, or vacation days; they don't even often have two hands available to complete any given task. To suggest that these women have an easy free ride is bullshit. To suggest that these women have no ambition is bullshit. To suggest that these women are setting the feminist movement back by decades is bullshit. To suggest that the children will be spoiled by the attention, less independent, or any less well-adjusted as a result of mommy staying home is bullshit. There are obvious perks, but what they do every day is really fucking hard, and they deserve more than a little credit for being able to pull it off.

The fact of the matter is this: the decision to stay home or go back to work is an intensely personal one, based on a number of factors that vary greatly from one family to the next. It is either naive or extremely self-centered to assume that the best choice for your family is the best choice for every other family. Most kids turn out just fine regardless of whether they grow up in a household where mom works or one where she stays home. Better than fine, even. To suggest otherwise is bullshit. And to continue to attack each other's choices as mothers - as women - THAT is what's going to set the feminist movement back by decades.

Redefining need

2011-01-17T22:15:00.000-08:00

Most of my friends know that I come from humble beginnings. We didn't have much when I was growing up, so I was trained in the fine art of penny pinching from a very early age. Despite the fact that my adult life has been far more prosperous (aside from those budget-crushing years immediately following my divorce), this history has led a few people to request tips for living on a tight budget. Unfortunately, those people don't generally like what I have to say about it, so it's maybe a little odd that I'm choosing to share my unpopular advice with the whole of the Internets. But being unemployed means that I'm spending a fair amount of time thinking budgets, and this is my blog, so there.

First, I need to clarify a few things. My budget is tight, but it's not unmanageable. Thanks to assistance from the state and from The Man, I have a roof over my head, food on my table, and clothes on my back. There are a lot of people getting by with a lot less than I have, so I don't mean to hold myself out as any sort of expert. And when I speak of a tight budget, I mean the kind of tight budget that means canceling cable, not the kind of tight budget that means basic needs aren't being met. This is an important distinction, because there's about to be a fair amount of "quitcher bitchin'," which would be entirely inappropriate were I speaking to people who are actually struggling to make ends meet. That's not who I'm talking to. I'm talking to the types of people who've specifically asked for my advice; people who've had to cut back, but whose basic needs are still being met; people like myself. Okay? Okay. Moving on.

If you're in a situation similar to mine, there's a very simple thing you can do to save money. Depending on your previous spending habits, it will either save you a lot or a little. How much money you need to save dictates how disciplined you need to be about it. Are you ready? Here's how you do it:

Stop buying stuff you don't need.

And done! That's it. No secret. Just don't buy shit you can't afford. There will be some things you want that you can't have. Get over it.

That's an annoying little piece of advice, isn't it? I say this to people who ask for my help, and they generally don't appreciate it. (Again, keep in mind I'm talking about a particular type of person in a particular type of financial situation. I would never say such a thing to someone who was having a hard time feeding her children.) But if you're "broke," you're going to have to do without some extras. That's all there is to it. The tricky thing is, we don't always recognize them as extras. If we've gotten into the habit of something (eating out, clothes shopping every weekend, regular manicures) it ceases to feel extra; it ceases to feel like the luxury it really is. But it is a luxury, and if you can't afford it, you can't afford it. It's a valid point, dammit! (But maybe I could stand to work on my delivery.)

Here's what I mean. We've all come to expect a certain standard of living; we've come to feel entitled to it. And in so doing, we get our needs all mixed up with our wants. We're all very accustomed to saying things like "I need a hair cut," or "I need a new pair of shoes to go with this dress," or "I need a new phone." But what we really mean is that we want these things. The difference is maybe subtle and The Man, who already accuses me of being pedantic, might use this as more proof of his claim. But I think if we change the way we talk about these things, we begin to change the way we think about them as well.

And this is the first step to living on a tight budget (for me, at least): getting my head right and redefining need. It doesn't mean that I cut out everything that isn't a matter of life or death (unless I'm really that broke). But it does mean that I reevaluate all the extras in my life, and figure out how many I need to part with. Organic produce? Stay. Cable TV? Go.

That's where my earlier advice comes in: stop buying what you don't need! Which, really, should be broken down into a few more steps to make a little more sense:

1. Stop feeling entitled to things you don't need. These things are extras, not inalienable rights.
2. Figure out what extras you can afford on top of your (real) needs.
3. Stop buying things you can't afford.

When people come to me for advice, this isn't what they want to hear. (I understand. When I come to me for advice, it's not always what I want to hear either.) Instead, it seems people expect me to have some magical way to help them have all the things they're accustomed to having... but on half the budget. Sadly, that's not how it works.

It's going to be uncomfortable. That's how it works. But changing your thinking in order to get your wants untangled from your needs is a really, really good first step. Once that's done, the practical advice (more on that later) is a whole lot easier to swallow.

Did that sound preachy? It did, didn't it? Sorry about that. It's not how I meant it. Not exactly. Unless you're that person trying to convince me that you need an iPhone. To you I say, "pffffft!" That's right: "Pffffft," I say. Take that.

Overheard at the coffee shop

2011-01-06T13:43:00.000-08:00

"Wait. You have a boy friend?"

"I do!"

"Didn't you used to be a lesbian?"

"Mostly, but I'm bi. Plus, he used to be gay so it sort of works itself out."

I see love continues to be the same convoluted bitch she's always been.

Game!

2011-01-05T13:31:00.000-08:00

A game! I have a game! It comes with exclamation points! Like I'm shouting! I love shouting games!

Speaking of which, I have to pause my game! story to tell you a different game! story. Have you guys played Zingo? If you haven't, you should. Especially if you have small-ish children. (Though, a fellow adult and I had quite a bit of fun playing the one on display at the toy store a few years ago.) It's like bingo... but with shouting. Shouting! Each player has a "bingo" card with simple pictures on it. Then there's this little plastic thing that dispenses chips with simple pictures on them. If one of the chips matches a picture on your board, you shout it out. "Cat!" you'd say. Or "worm!" Or "kite!" (If you're like me, you get so excited waiting for the next chips to be revealed, that you shout them out as soon as you see them... whether or not they're on your board. Zingo Tourette's, I think you'd call it.) And then you grab the chip with the cat or the worm or the kite and place it on your bingo board. Or, if you've shouted out erroneously, you receive some sort of penalty. I can't remember what the penalty is, though I really should considering how many times I received it. TREE! That's what playing the game with me is like. DOG! Just me, shouting a lot. BAT! This continues until someone's entire board is filled, at which point s/he shouts "Zingo!" So much shouting!

Anyway, you should check it out if you haven't already.

Now. Where was I?

Ah, yes. I have a game! I stole it from Facebook, but don't worry: I will not be asking you to buy me a cow for my farm. Instead, I'll be offering to make you something. Fun!

But let me back up for a minute and start from the beginning.

This morning, a friend of mine posted a new status to her Facebook page announcing that she would make something for the first 5 people who comment. Those 5 people would then be expected to make the same announcement on their own pages, and make something for the first 5 people who comment on their pages. And then those 5 people would make the same announcement, and so on and so on and so on. The rules are simple: the things you make must be homemade by YOU, and you must get them to your 5 people before the end of 2011.

I thought to myself, "Self, that's a whole year! Surely I can make five things in one whole year." And so I commented on her post and now I'm in. On Facebook. But then it occurred to me...

I could make 10 things in one whole year, right? And how much fun would it be to expand this little game (game!) to my bloggy friends? Don't get me wrong - I love my Facebook friends. (Well. Some of them.) But I exist with them in the "real" world. Undertaking the same activity with you guys? It lets me put something 3-dimensional into my cyber world, which is trippy and awesome.

So. The first five people to comment will receive something handmade from yours truly. (In the interest of full disclosure, I'm no artist, no seamstress, no gourmet chef. I don't promise that you'll receive something incredibly awesome. But I will make it with love with my own two hands.) If you feel inclined to "pay it forward" and offer the same game! on your own blog, that would be pretty neat. And if you do, I might just try to be one of the first five to comment... which sort of makes it less of a "pay it forward" and more of a "pay it in a circle," but whatevs. Make sure you leave me some way to contact you so that I can get your address when I'm ready to send your thing to you (or you can email it to me now at martinimomblog@gmail.com). If you have a blog or Twitter account or some other online life, please include it in your comment so that I can check you out a bit and do my best to make something you might actually like. And, finally, don't be surprised if it takes me all year to get something to you. I have a whole year, and I intend to use it.

Okay?

Okay.

Ready. Get set. Go!

Today's silly thing

2011-01-04T11:12:00.000-08:00

I used to work with a guy who was a dedicated user of dated similes. "She took to it like a duck to water," he said of his wife's foray into cooking. "...go together like peas and carrots," he declared of Elliot Smith and autumn. My grandfather probably used such phrases, and hearing them come out of a hip twenty-something designer's mouth never ceased to amuse me.

But then along came another hip twenty-something designer - a delightfully jaded curmudgeon like myself - who suggested it would be far more humorous if the similes were prematurely halted, leaving off the part of the comparison that makes the whole thing make sense. For example:

"She took to it like a duck to water" becomes, simply, "She took to it like a duck."

"They go together like peas and carrots" becomes "They go together like peas."

Yes? Get it? Now you try one.

"Love and marriage go together like a horse and carriage" becomes "Love and marriage go together like a horse."

Excellent! Though that one is basically a slightly altered version of peas and carrots. Let's try another:

"Her voice was like fingernails on a chalkboard" becomes "Her voice was like fingernails."

"Running around like a chicken with it's head cut off" becomes "Running around like a chicken."

"Happy as a pig in mud" becomes "Happy as a pig."

Yes, you've got it!

Now, perhaps this doesn't seem particularly humorous to you. I can understand where this would be a "had to have been there" kind of thing. Which is why maybe you should try interjecting one of these (or one of your own!) into a conversation with an unsuspecting coworker. Then you will have been there and you can laugh along with me.

No fair explaining to your conversation partner. Just throw it into conversation like you mean it and watch what happens. (Tip: ones with animals are infinitely funnier. Especially ducks. Ducks are freaking hilarious. Way funnier than chickens. True story.)

Ready? Go!

Maybe

2011-01-03T10:58:00.000-08:00

I got the job!

Sort of.

I had an interview last week. Remember that? Well, the HR manager called this morning to tell me that they are extremely (her emphasis) interested in me and think I'm a perfect fit for the position. In fact, they'd already started putting my offer letter together last week. But then a current employee came back from vacation and expressed interest in the position, and there was really no reason not to give it to her. However, they're expecting to be crazy busy this year and think they'll need to hire another project manager in a couple of months. She wants to keep in contact so that they can hire me when they're ready. She even asked that I let her know if I start getting other offers so that they have the opportunity to try to speed things along on their end.

So, I've got the job... probably... in a few months.

While I'm flattered, I'm also feeling a little relieved. And a little guilty for feeling relieved. The relief comes from not yet being ready to return to work. I want more time with my boys. It also comes from not wanting to return to an unfulfilling career, which I wrote about here. And the guilt comes from being picky at a time when so many people are desperate for work. The guilt also comes from believing that there is something better for me. Not necessarily better that this particular job (it seems like a very good job, actually), but better than this life. This workin' for the man life. Which is how we all feel, I know. Hence the guilt. What makes me think I'm so special? What makes me think I'm entitled to a fulfilling career? What makes me think I'm entitled to decide that my career is staying at home with the kids, if that's what I want?

Well. Actually. A lot of you do that last one. And there was a time when I didn't understand why you would want to. But now I do. The last job I really enjoyed was when I was 17 and managed the office of a ballet studio. I did all the office stuff, but I also got to help little girls put their hair in tiny little buns and sew their elastics back onto their slippers when they snapped in the middle of class. And sometimes I even got to teach when the owner was too drunk to do it himself. Yay for drunk owners! That work was not hollow, but every other job I've held has been. Sure, some of those other jobs were challenging and interesting and I may have even enjoyed them for a time, but all were ultimately hollow. At the end of my day I could look at my work and know that I'd helped rich people get richer. Hollow. Hollow. Hollow. But you know what isn't hollow? Taking care of my kids, that's what. It's no walk in the park. In fact, quite often it's a total pain in the ass. It elicits the same - usually more - curses and heavy sighs and need for caffeine as any job. But at the end of the day I can look at my work and know without a doubt that it served a worthy purpose; that it was meaningful; that it was. not. hollow. So I get you now, stay-at-home-moms. I don't get your desire to drive minivans regardless of how few children you have, but I do get your desire to stay home.

Anyway. All this to say what?

I kind of, sort of, might have a job eventually. And while the job isn't really what I want to be doing, the people I'd be working with seem intelligent and fun. The work environment might make up for the work itself. And that, before I lost my job, was the best I thought I could hope for. So this is a viable option, assuming the compensation is fair and the offer actually materializes.

But...

But I intend to spend the next few weeks, months, whatever, figuring out something else. Something better. Maybe I don't figure it out. Maybe I take the first job that's offered to me (because I'll continue sending out resumes too) in the name of relative financial security. But maybe I figure out a way to stay home with my boys. Maybe I figure out a way to work from home, earning a little extra cash and keeping my brain active. Maybe that work from home plants a seed that someday grows into a full-time NOT HOLLOW career.

Maybe.

If babies could talk

2010-12-30T16:36:00.000-08:00

"Hey! Look what I can do!"

[rolls from back to stomach]

"Wait. Wait! This is no good. Arg! I'm on my belly! I hate being on my belly!"

[rolls from stomach to back with mommy's assistance]

"Hey! Look what I can do!"

[rolls from back to stomach]

"Aaaaah! Aaaaaaah! Aaaaaaah!"

[rolls from stomach to back with mommy's assistance]

"Hey! Look what I can do!"

[rolls from back to stomach]

"Dammit! My face is touching the floor again. Mom? Mom? MOM!"

[rolls from stomach to back with mommy's assistance]

"Hey! Look what I can do!"

[rolls from back to stomach]

"Why does this keep happening to me?"

[rolls from stomach to back with mommy's assistance]

"Hey! Look what I can do!"

[rolls from back to stomach]

"Aw, bloody effing hell."

[rolls from stomach to back with mommy's assistance]

"Hey! Look what I can do!"

And so on, and so on, and so on...

Wherin I whine and then tell myself to shut the hell up

2010-12-28T14:40:00.000-08:00

This is a terrible time for a midlife crisis.

I need a job. There are bills to pay. A mortgage. Gutters to replace. A remodeled kitchen to pay off. Also, food. Food is nice.

But I don't want a job. At least not just any job.

I had an interview yesterday at a graphic design firm, which - if I land it - will have me doing essentially the same thing I did at the last design firm. During the interview, I was asked a question that forced me to spread a thick smile over an involuntary grimace: "What is it about project management that made you select it as your career?"

Seriously? Do people actually wake up one day and think to themselves "Eureka! Self, let's be a project manager when we grow up!"

I shouldn't scoff. I suppose some people do awaken to that epiphany and find it to be a welcome idea. But me? Not so much. Luckily, I has a response polished and waiting to be delivered to answer the question; one that goes on about the analytical part of my brain and how it loves to make out with checklists and schedules and other related bullshit.

Which isn't actually bullshit in that it's technically true. My brain does, in fact, get off on a finely crafted checklist. But an even truer answer would be "Because I need money and I'm only qualified for so many things."

It's true that I'm good at it. I can be one anal, detail-oriented mofo when I need to be. But it's not exactly meaningful work. Of course that doesn't matter right now, because what I need isn't meaningful work. What I need is a job.

The complicating factor here is my boys. If I'm going to ship them off to daycare, I'd like it to be for a worthy cause, and not just another crappy job. (I suppose grocery money is a worthy cause. Paying the mortgage is a worthy cause. But only if you like food and shelter. Whatever. I've no desire to be rational right now.)

It's been a very long time since I had anything resembling job satisfaction. I don't want to be doing what I've been doing. And actively seeking out yet another job that I don't want is more than a little depressing.

I'm not entirely sure why it's hitting me so hard this time. The situation is nothing new. It's never been an option for me to not work. I'm quite used to shipping children off to daycare. It's status quo, and it's always been fine before. So what gives? Just too many years of selling out? Maybe I've simply reached my limit. Maybe it's a keener sense of how quickly my babies are growing up? Maybe it's a keener sense of how quickly I am growing ~~old~~ up.

Whatever it is, now is not the time for it. Not in this economy. Midlife crisis be damned. Momma needs a new (soul-sucking) job! In which case, I should probably stop checking my inbox, hoping for an email rejecting me.

Visible invisible red thread ornaments

2010-12-20T06:58:00.000-08:00

A little over a year ago, the design firm I used to work for was hiring a new design assistant. One woman we interviewed had a portfolio item that was centered around this Chinese proverb:

An invisible red thread connects those who are destined to meet regardless of time, place or circumstance. The thread may stretch or tangle, but it will never break.

When I read it, I immediately thought of The Man. He had only recently arrived in Seattle and moved in with me, after two years of a Seattle-to-Dallas long distance relationship - plus our years of star-crossed lovers bullshit and heartache before that.

The thread may stretch and tangle, but it will never break.

After her interview, I rushed back to my desk to write the proverb down before I forgot it. (Of course, it was already too late and I managed only to write down something ridiculous like "red thread people destined to tangle!" Luckily, that was close enough for Google to figure out.)

When Christmas rolled around, I wanted to gift The Man something representative of that proverb, but I couldn't figure out what. I spent hours on Etsy searching "red string" and "red ribbon" and "red thread" and found a lot of lovely jewelery for myself, but nothing at all for him. Frustrated, I decided to take matters into my own hands and made him a red thread ornament.

A pair of red thread ornaments, actually, connected to each other. Get it? Of course you do. You're not stupid. Still, here's another picture:

It's a simple project, but a sweet one (in my humble, completely unbiased opinion) and I wouldn't even mind if you copied it.

Supplies needed:
1. Clear glass ornaments
2. Tons of red thread, string, or ribbon
3. Pencil
4. Spray glue
5. Patience

Remove the top hanger things from the ornaments. Pull a shit ton of thread off the spool and start stuffing it into the first ornament. If you thread it in slowly, you can make some pretty cool patterns with the thread inside the ornament... just don't get too enamored with anything because there's a good chance it'll shift and flatten before you're done. I threaded it slowly at first, and then got impatient and started wrapping the thread around the end of a pencil and inserting the pencil into the ornament hole to deposit the thread. Turns out, it wasn't a ton faster, but it did leave some cool spiraling "tubes" of thread. Most of my tubes didn't survive the year of storage since last Christmas, but I bet if you shot the thread with a bit of spray glue before cramming it in the ornament they'd hold up better. You can kind of see the remnants of a tube in the bottom right side of the foremost ornament here:

I used a fair amount of thread in both ornaments, but you can leave them sparse if you prefer. It looks cool either way. I decided to go for more thread in each so that they could be hung on entirely different sides of the tree if The Man wanted to play out the "the thread may stretch and tangle" bit.

When you've got as much thread in the first ornament as you want, unroll a shit ton more thread (as much as you think you'll want for the second ornament), being careful to keep it from tangling. (Despite what the proverb says, now is NOT the time to let the thread tangle.) Cut the thread from the spool when you think you've got enough. This snipped end is what you'll begin stuffing into the second ornament.

First, thread the snipped end through the first ornament's hanger thing (inserting it from the bottom of the hanger thing so that it exits out the top of the hanger thing) and replace the hanger thing on the first ornament.

Yes. "Hanger Thing" is the official name of that gold piece at the top of the ornament. Thank you for asking.

Next, thread the snipped end through the second ornament's hanger thing (inserting it this time from the top of the hanger thing so that it exits out the bottom of the hanger thing), and start stuffing the snipped end into the second ornament much as you did for the first. This time, you'll have the second ornament's hanger thing dangling from the thread that you're working with. It'll be annoying, but you'll live.

Keep stuffing it into the second ornament until about 6" (more or less to suit your preference) are left between the two ornaments. Pop the hanger thing back on the second ornament and voila! You'll have something that looks a bit like this:

Pretty, no?

I wrapped mine in an equally pretty red and white box, and wrote the proverb (in red ink) on the inside of the box lid so The Man would understand why I'd given him two ornaments tied together. It's sweet in the context of the proverb; otherwise, it's just weird and cumbersome to hang on a tree.

We decorated our tree last week, and the ornaments are happily hanging together again. Hopefully they will be for years and trees to come...

The birth story

2010-12-07T10:19:00.000-08:00

It's about 3:00 am when the first one hits. I've been having contractions for months, so I don't bother getting out of bed to alert The Man. But I know. I've been feeling a little off all day, and even left work early that afternoon. And this contraction is just different; not stronger, exactly, but somehow more intense. But it's late and I'm tired and I've been through this before. I know what to expect of the hours ahead of me. And I'm not ready. Not yet.

I sigh and roll onto my side, burrowing my head into the pillow and pulling the blankets tight around my shoulders. But I can't get comfortable. I know it's time. Even the air feels different.

By the time The Man comes to bed I'm curled into as tight a ball as a full-term pregnant woman can get, desperately trying to get just a little more sleep despite the pain spreading across my abdomen. He climbs into bed next to me and realizes my position. "Contraction?" he asks.

"Mm-hm."

"Is it time?"

"I think so."

I know so. But I make no move to get out of bed. I'm still not ready. Not yet.

It's 4:30 before I call my mom. By this time the contractions are immobilizing. I have to stop what I'm doing and wait them out. The Kid is sleeping soundly in the next room, and my mom drives over to stay with him. She helps The Man load me into the car and we're off.

We get to the hospital around 5:00 am. It's after-hours, which means that we have to park in a special garage across the street from the ER. The walk from the car to the building is more than daunting (in reality, it's only about half a block). The Man is trying to hurry me along, but these are not the kind of contractions I can walk through. I shuffle along as best I can behind him, desperate for some sort of hand rail to drape my body over. We get inside the doors and I literally fall into the first wheelchair I see. The Man is pushing me forward before I even have time to get my feet on the footholds.

We're admitted into labor and delivery triage immediately. The nurse is friendly, but not moving with as much urgency as I'd like. I've been through this before. These contractions are strong. I know we're close. She takes her time, reads over my chart, and asks me why I've come in. Why have I come in? I'm concentrating on breathing my way through another contraction, which is lucky for her.

"I'm having a baby."

She gives me a kind, wide-eyed look that lets me know she's not so sure. I'm sure she sees a lot of false alarms, but this is no false alarm.

The first cervix check puts me at 4 cm. (If I recall correctly. The details are all fuzzy.) This is enough to convince her that I really am in labor, and she leaves to call my doctor. I'm now well beyond uncomfortable. The contractions continue to get stronger and the triage room doesn't offer the same comforts of a labor room. I begin to shake uncontrollably. My heart races, I'm drenched in a sudden sweat, and I nearly pass out. I feel nauseous. And the contractions are growing ever stronger. I have to fight off the urge to yell for the nurse. My instincts are beginning to take over, and they're telling me that it's time to hunker down and get settled in my final birthing location. I need to make a safe nest, an this triage room ain't cutting it.

The nurse returns, does another cervix check, and proclaims me ready. We move upstairs to my labor and delivery room. The nurses exchange notes while I get into a hospital gown. I've brought labor clothes, but my body is telling me to skip the formalities. It's time for the gown. I'm well past the point of caring whether or not my ass is hanging out.

The preparations of my new nurse make it clear that I'm right. I'm progressing quickly, and she's wasting no time in getting my room ready for a baby's arrival. I overhear a quiet conversation between the nurses, where the first says something along the lines of, "she's been here a half hour and she's already gone from x - x cm." (I can't remember the centimeters she quoted, but it was a lot for a half hour.)

It is clear to me that there will be no walking up and down the hallway for hours and no jacuzzi bath during this labor. We are simply too close and I am already too focused. I spend a bit of time in the rocking chair, but mostly I sway with my body draped over the bed, belly hanging, breathing and moaning.

At some point I get into bed to allow the nurse to do... something. I'm too focused on what I'm doing to commit to memory what she's doing. I'm loathe to move. Even the tiniest twitch of a toe brings on another contraction. The nurse finishes with whatever it is she's doing and makes me an offer: "Shall we have the doctor break your water and get this show on the road?"

I pause. I've had my water broken before. I know what happens next. There's no pain with the rupture, but the contractions get about a million times more intense. When I was in labor with The Kid, I literally believed that my organs were being squeezed out of my body after my water was broken. I'm not even kidding - I actually lifted up the sheet at one point, fully expecting to find that I'd birthed my bladder. Am I really ready for this? I run a quick check of my emotional and physical state.

No use putting off the inevitable, I decide. I would like to be done with this ordeal sooner rather than later. I nod at the nurse and with only a bit of hesitation tell her that I'm ready. The doctor arrives shortly thereafter and my water is unceremoniously broken.

Immediately the contractions are nearly unbearable, coming two at a time, back-to-back. I am, at this point, completely in my body. My brain has gathered up all higher thought processes and is standing off in the far corner, desperately trying to stay out of the way. The only thing in the room I'm aware of is The Man, his concerned face, his comforting hand. Occasionally the doctor or a nurse interrupt to take my blood pressure or give gentle instructions, but they are only voices, only minor annoyances tugging at my consciousness.

I already need to push; am already unintentionally bearing down. The doctor is apologetically asking me to wait. For those of you who haven't been through this, there is no "urge" to push any more than there is an "urge" to hiccup. There is only need. Your body decides that you're going to hiccup, and so you do. Someone saying, "Wait, not yet! Don't hiccup yet!" isn't particularly effective in stopping your hiccups. It's even less effective in stopping you from pushing.

But I do my best. I change my breathing from "hee hee hee hoo" to "puh puh puh puh" and secretly consider ignoring the doctor and pushing anyway. What does she know? But then she says something about a bruised cervix and I think better of it. I am allowed to bear down just a little, just enough to take the edge off, and then I return to "puh"ing.

There is not the same feeling of birthing my internal organs in this labor (aside from that one contraction that squeezes every last bit of air from my colon in what is quite possibly the world's most forceful fart EVER). This time the pressure is much more focused, much more localized, much lower. This time, it's all head against cervix. My other organs have learned their lessons and are staying out of it.

I am convinced he's making his way out, with or without me pushing. The pressure is unbearable. I'm in immense pain from the contractions, but that I can live with. What's killing me is not being allowed to push and relieve the pressure. I am gripping The Man's hand, but my eyes have been squeezed shut for most of this journey. I open them to see his face wet with tears. I want to reassure him; tell him I'm okay. I try to say it out loud, "I'm okay," but I'm not sure if I remember to open my mouth. Talking is hard.

The contractions are too strong, and The Baby is not responding well. His blood pressure drops. The doctor shoots some fluid back into my uterus to offer him some little bit of cushion. I am outfitted with an oxygen mask and The Baby gets probes stuck into his scalp to aid in monitoring his vitals. I am forced to suffer through one more contraction before the doctor says, "Okay, I'm going to have you start pushing." I get the impression that I'm not exactly where she'd like me, but it's time to get The Baby out.

I am rolled onto my back an the nurse says the most audacious thing she could possibly say to me in that moment: "I want you to hold your legs and pull them back as you push forward." Clearly this woman has somehow missed the fact that I lost the use of my arms at least 45 minutes ago. I am exhausted. It's amazing I have the energy to blink. There's no possible way I can hold my legs.

"I can't," I say. I had intended to explain that my arms were too weak, but a pathetic "I can't" is all I can manage. (Later she'll need me to put my legs back down, and I'll respond the same way: I can't. Again, I'll have more to say, but that's all that will make it out before my mouth is just too tired to continue.)

"Yes you can," she encourages.

I win. She holds one leg and The Man holds the other. I put my hands on my legs, but it's for show only.

When the next contraction hits, I push with all my might, breathe, push with all my might again, breathe, and push with all my might one last time. It feels glorious, but is wildly unproductive. I'm still getting my bearings and honing in on precisely where to push.

Panting on the bed waiting for the next contraction, my head begins to clear. My body is rallying. I feel a contraction building and grab hold of my legs for real. It's business time.

The second series of pushes (three pushes for each contraction) is much more effective. I can feel that his head is quite low now. While I rest between contractions, the doctor tells me she's going to let me try one more time, and then they're going to have to use the vacuum. His blood pressure has been too low for too long.

The third contraction begins to build and I am determined. No one's putting a vacuum on my kid's head if there's anything I can do about it. And so I push and grit my teeth and hold my breath and push and push and push. I can feel that I'm close; can feel that his head is nearly out. The doctor and the nurses and The Man are all cheering me on. The contraction has ended, but I keep pushing. I desperately need to take a breath, but I keep pushing. I feel that stretch, the biiiiiiig stretch, the one that means we're going to make it, and then his head is out.

I collapse back onto the bed in relief. I can tell already that this is a big baby; there is no doubt that that was a much larger head than the last one I birthed. But the hard part is over. The shoulders, I know from previous experience, will take only a half-hearted push and the rest of his little body will slide right out. I take a couple deep breaths to prepare myself, grab onto my legs, curl forward, push and...

...and nothing. I look up, startled. I see the doctor through my legs and say, again, "I can't." She thinks I'm just tired and encourages me to keep trying. But I'm not too tired. I can't make him move. At all. It's like there's nothing there; nothing to push against. I try again but still...

I can't. And here's where the shit hits the fan.

I see the doctor's face change. In a whirlwind, she pushes the emergency call button. A voice comes over the receiver: "What do you need?" The doctor responds with a note of something in her voice, something that sounds just a bit like panic: "More hands!" she replies.

I have no idea how many people come rushing into my room, but suddenly I am surrounded by an entire medical team. I am not aware of any faces, just the tangle of arms above me. One arm grabs my left leg and throws it back towards my shoulder. Another arm performs an emergency episiotomy. Another - or several others - are on my abdomen, forcefully pushing down hard. Really, really, really hard. Like they're performing CPR on my gut. Only harder.

I have no idea what exactly they're trying to accomplish, but judging by the force they're using and the expression on my doctor's face, they need to accomplish it quickly. He's stuck and, presumably, receiving little or no oxygen. Between stomach punches, I have time for a single thought to spring forth:

This is how babies die during delivery.

This is how babies die during delivery.

This is how my baby will die during delivery.

And then, just like that, he slides out. My body is empty. I should be relieved, but I'm scared out of my mind. My baby is whisked away to the other side of the room, and he is silent. My brain tries to play with the idea that he might be dead but I won't allow it. I look at The Man, who tells me later that The Baby exited my body a ghastly shade of white.

After an eternity, I hear his cry. "There he is..." I sigh. I hear the nurses cooing over him and saying in surprise, "That's a big baby!" He's placed on the scale and the announcement is made: 9 lbs, 8oz.

That is a big baby. A big, healthy baby. His apgar scores are all excellent and he is pronounced unscathed (though, we'll discover a week later that, in fact, his left collar bone was broken during the ordeal). Diagnosis: shoulder dystocia. A broken collar bone is a minor annoyance compared to the nerve damage, cerebral palsy, mental retardation, and death that can easily occur.

He was born at 7:40 a.m. All told, I was in labor for just under 5 hours (including the time before we got to the hospital), and I pushed for only 3 contractions, a far cry from the 14 hours of labor and 2 hours of pushing I did with The Kid. We stay overnight in the hospital and are released the next day to live happily ever after.

The end.

The Baby and his giant head, now 3 months old.

On the hunt

2010-12-06T15:37:00.000-08:00

It's week four of the job hunt; week four of sifting through sites filled with jobs I don't want or who don't want me. It should be depressing, this so far futile search, and sometimes it is. It is, at least, disheartening to apply for jobs that I'm qualified for... but that I have no real interest in. My background (marketing and project management) is not what I want for my foreground. That doesn't really make any sense. What I mean is that what I've been doing isn't what I want to be doing anymore. But it's what I'm qualified for and what pays the bills. And bills? We have lots of 'em. And so I keep at it; keep writing cover letters; keep sending my resume; keep trying to sell myself into a job I don't want. Like I said, it should be depressing. And sometimes it is.

But sometimes...

Sometimes it's exhilarating having no idea what lies before me. Sometimes it's almost intoxicating thinking about the possibilities. Sometimes it seems like a disguised blessing to find myself without a job, because now I have the freedom to entertain crazy thoughts. Now I can think about risky career ideas because, you know, there are not many jobs that are riskier than no job at all.

Well. Motorcycle stuntman, I guess. That's pretty risky.

But you get my point. I'm considering things now that I wouldn't have considered from the secure seat of my Herman Miller Aeron office chair. Because giving up security for risk is something that I'm just not wired to do. But now, what've I got to lose?!

Besides my house.

Ahem.

In other words, despite some minor panic about finances (my house!), I'm feeling like some good could come of losing my job; that things will be tricky for a while, but better in the long run; that maybe, just maybe, this is the universe forcing me to find my way out of soul-sucking corporate bullshit jobs. And so I'm on the hunt. Not just for a job, but for what it is that I really want to do with myself.

Sometimes it's depressing. But sometimes it's not. And today is a good day.

This is why I love him

2010-12-03T18:54:00.000-08:00

I send him this, something of an updated Rick-roll:

And several hours later, he sends me this back:

He takes what I start, and makes it about a million times more awesome.

On a related note, Will Smith makes cute kids.

On the radio (uh oh)

2010-11-19T10:26:00.000-08:00

I've had this Regina Spektor song stuck in my head all week, ever since I was on the radio.

That's right. I was on the radio. The BBC kind of radio no less. It all started when I wrote this post, proclaiming my very unpopular opinion regarding whether or not Amazon should sell The Pedophile's Guide to Love and Pleasure. The next morning there was an email from the BBC show, "World Have Your Say," requesting an interview.

I panicked.

Of course I wanted to be interviewed by any show on the BBC because, you know, IT'S THE BBC. But the thing with the radio is that people listen to it. People all over the world. And I would say things, and those people all over the world would hear my things. That's how it works, this radio thing. People would hear me!

I faltered.

And it occurred to me that I do that a lot. I falter. I let opportunities pass me by because I'm afraid of them, or because I think I'm not quite prepared for them. I'm a perfectionist, and I insist on shying away from things that are a little beyond my control lest some small vulnerability, even the tiniest of flaws, be exposed. I scolded myself for being such a sissy, marched over to my computer, and shot of a reply confirming my acceptance of their interview offer.

But I faltered.

By the time I sent the email, the show was already in progress and I knew it was too late. Furious with myself, I vowed to stop being such a pansy. Next time, I promised myself. Next time.

As it turns out, "next time" was the next day. I received a follow up email saying that they hadn't discussed the topic as planned, but were going to revisit it the next day. I was asked, again, to participate.

I did not falter. I sent my contact information and anxiously waited for morning to arrive.

Arrive it did. And call, the BBC did. But they happened to be called while I was walking my son to school, and so all I was left with was a voice mail from a lovely sounding British man. Genuinely disappointed, and not at all relieved to have been spared a nerve-wracking situation, I tuned in to listen to the show that almost included me.

I listened to the introductions with each guest's blog being plugged. I listened to the first two women to speak. Both were well-spoken; neither appeared nervous. And then some relief began to set in. Surely I would not have sounded so well put together. But the next couple people who spoke were far less organized. "I missed the phone call," I angrily typed at The Man. "And I'm far better spoken that two of the panel."

A little arrogant, perhaps. Sure, I'm fairly well spoken under normal circumstances. But how would I sound if I knew people all over the world! were listening?

And then, suddenly, the phone rang. I answered hopefully, nervously... and found myself speaking to a lovely sounding British woman. After confirming that I still wanted to talk, she briskly ushered me through a sound check. I failed. My phone started beeping. The battery was dying. "We'll call back!" she declared. "Find a different phone!" I went tearing through the house in search of another handset. They're always wandering off, those things. I found another, also with a dying battery, and - with the phone now ringing again - tore through the rest of the house desperately searching for our third and final handset.

"Hello!" I shouted, breathless, at the woman. "Hello! I'm here! I found a phone! Actually I found two! But the other one had a dead battery too! And I..." I wouldn't continued to shout the entire ordeal had the woman not cut me off.

"Just listen to the show," she instructed. "We'll be with you momentarily. Listen for your name, and then speak. After that, feel free to interject yourself into the conversation at any time. Okay? Are you ready?"

I'm pretty sure my response was something along the lines of "gyah," but it must've sounded enough like "yeah" because she pushed me through to the show. I frantically began scribbling notes - the names of the other guests and their positions, what points had already been covered and by whom - and desperately tried to remember my own position. Nerves already rattled, I had to re-read my own post to recall the finer points of my opinion. Radio people kept cutting into the phone line to tell me "it won't be long," and "we'll be with you any minute," and "listen for your name!"

And then a man called in who, eventually, self-identified as a pedophile. The conversation got a little intense. My note-taking stopped so that I could focus all my attention on a single thought: Please don't make me follow the pedophile. Please don't make me follow the pedophile. Please don't make me follow the pedophile.

Because, I'll be quite frank, I was nervous enough without needing to come up with a proper segue to follow that conversation.

Luckily, the host managed the segue and queued it over to Paul Constant from The Stranger's blog, The Slog (see his post on the controversy here). I was so full of relief that I forgot to pay attention to the conversation and, suddenly finding it my turn to speak, prattled on about free speech and nonfiction until the host kindly removed the talking stick from my startled fist.

You can hear the show here. I don't come in until about minute 35 (Kellee in Seattle), but you should give the whole thing a listen as the people who came before me are more worth your time.

About a boy

2010-11-11T22:05:00.001-08:00

He stumbles into the kitchen, arms loaded with an assortment of action figures, video games, and a teetering pile of books. I look over from the dinner I'm preparing, startled by the commotion. A shy smile plays across his small face. "We can set up a table outside and sell these to people who walk by," he suggests quietly, hopefully.

I suggest a local upcoming toy swap for the video games; a trip to the used bookstore for a trade on the books. These, I know, will grant him a better return on his items than a yard sale. But, no, he insists. He doesn't want to trade for new toys, new games, new books. He wants to earn money. He wants to earn money to give to me. He wants to help pay the mortgage, buy the groceries. "I am a part of this family. I am a part of this house," he proclaims. "I want to help."

I gaze at him, amazed. My eyes drip tears into the cooking pasta. I can't speak, so I wrap my arms around him and mumble unintelligible love into his ear.

I try to gently talk him out of the yard sale all night, careful not to hurt his feelings with what might appear to be an unappreciative refusal of his offer. I try to guide him into other, more appropriate ways he can help: cutting back on wasted food by eating what's on his plate without complaint, calming my stress levels by picking up after himself, remembering to turn out the lights when he leaves a room.

But The Kid is determined. "This is my mission," he tells me."This is the only way I know how to help. And I'll be bummed if no one buys this stuff, or if I can't make enough money, because I do not want to fail you."

How do I tell him that the pile of possessions he's volunteered to sell represents so much more than the $2 he's likely to earn at a yard sale? How do I tell him that I can't possibly accept his earnest offer? How do I tell him how much the gesture is appreciated? How do I tell him how proud I am of him? How do I tell him how much he warms, and simultaneously breaks, my heart?

As many of you already know, I lost my job yesterday. I work(ed) for a small company; one with little in the way of benefits. I was completing month three of my unpaid maternity leave, scheduled to return to work in early December. The Boss called yesterday and told me not to bother coming back. He's decided that the woman I trained to cover my position in my absence is a better fit for the company, and sees this as "an opportunity for a smooth transition." There are many things I could say about the circumstances surrounding my termination, like how much they suck balls, but I'll save that rant for another post.

Because this post isn't about me. It isn't about my lost job, or my former boss, or my financial worries and woes, or how in god's name I'm going to get by. This post is about the miraculous little boy who lives at the end of my hallway. The one who continually surprises and impresses and humbles me. The one who has given me so much more than I deserve in this life. This post is about him.

Judging a book

2010-11-10T11:44:00.000-08:00

So. Amazon is selling this book:

In case you can't make out the title from this less than optimum quality cover image, it's "The Pedophiles Guide to Love and Pleasure." Subtitle: "A Child-Lover's Code of Conduct."

Ew. Icky book. I won't be reading that one. Moving on.

Except that I can't move on, because my Twitter stream is full of public outrage decrying Amazon's foul and demanding a boycott of the the online selling giant until the offending title is removed. The horror and disgust has gone viral. A few brave dissenters have stepped forward in the name of free speech, but they've been all but burned at the stake by the angry mob.

Yes. I just called you an angry mob. There is a difference between rationally opposing something and getting swept away in a tidal wave of moral righteousness simply because Twitter told you to do so.

If you're someone who saw a tweet, took the time to check the Amazon link, read more than the title of the book in question, and maybe even did a simple Google search to verify the legitimacy of the whole thing, and then decided to retweet your own moral outrage, fine. I have no beef with you.

But if you're someone who saw the bandwagon rushing by and couldn't help but jump aboard head-first without knowing anything more about the book than its title? You who literally judge a book by its cover? I do have a beef with you. Aside from adding to a collective panic that maybe needs to chill out just a little, your kind of reflexive retweeting before research can kill people. KILL PEOPLE! No, I'm not exaggerating. Remember that time we killed Jeff Goldblum?

That said, if you did do your research, it does appear that this book is just as icky on the inside as it is on the outside. The product description reads as follows:

"This is my attempt to make pedophile situations safer for those juveniles that find themselves involved in them, by establishing certian rules for these adults to follow. I hope to achieve this by appealing to the better nature of pedosexuals, with hope that their doing so will result in less hatred and perhaps liter [sic] sentences should they ever be caught."

And I could find nothing elsewhere online proving that this was a hoax, or a satirical poke at priests*, or anything else to suggest that Phillip R. Greaves didn't really write a handbook for pedophiles. So you snap judgment folks lucked out and were right after all. (But seriously. Don't do that again. It's not a good idea.)

So now the issue is whether or not Amazon should sell the book. Or, more radically, whether or not the book should be banned altogether. Plenty are calling for a boycott of Amazon until they remove the book from the site; plenty are demanding that the FBI arrest the author and get rid of the book altogether.

And here's where I find myself solidly in the "freedom of speech" camp.

Some have argued that this particular book crosses a moral line, and so freedom of speech shouldn't apply. But I maintain that there are no gradations of freedom of speech; it's either free or it isn't. In order to protect the right, we must be prepared to extend it to all speech, not just that which we agree with or are comfortable with.

"There is no such thing as a moral or immoral book. Books are either well written or badly written. That is all." - Oscar Wilde

Who is to decide for all of us what's moral and what isn't? Who is to decide for all of us what crosses the line and what doesn't? Who decides that this book is wrong, but Lolita is right? (Not that I'm comparing Mr. Greaves to Nabokov, but the subject matter makes this the obvious example.) If it were up to me, Fox News would be first on the list to lose its freedom of speech rights. But it's NOT up to me, for precisely that reason. We can't have individuals (or the government) attempting to control what other people hear/see/read/watch, no matter how despicable it may be.

But this is an old argument, and one that's been expressed far better than I'm able, distracted as I am with a sleeping baby spread precariously across my lap. So, boo on censorship; yay on freedom of speech. Moving on.

That said, Amazon refusing to sell the book does not amount to censorship. It amounts to a business decision. Amazon not selling it does not affect the man's right to write it or the public's right to read it. (Though, some would argue, it does affect the public's access to and ability to read it, which is, in effect, censorship. But I don't have time for that debate today.) So I fully support any individual who sees Amazon's decision to sell the book, disagrees with that decision, and decides to boycott Amazon. Lord knows I've boycotted business for much less.

I, for one, will not be boycotting Amazon. In fact, I applaud them for standing their ground on this issue, if that is, in fact what they're doing. I'm actually not so sure that they won't pull it eventually. Despite reported responses from Amazon on discussion threads stating that they "...believe it is censorship not to sell certain books simply because we or others believe their message is objectionable," their own guidelines ban material that is "offensive" (though they don't define what "offensive" is). But, assuming they leave the book to sell, I think it's the right move.

Please don't mistake my support of Amazon as an endorsement of pedophilia. I am a mother. The mere idea of child predators makes me nauseous. But it is my opinion that freedom of speech comes with an implied right to disseminate that speech; otherwise, all we've really been granted is the right to whisper quietly to ourselves in the privacy of our own darkened bedrooms.

*And speaking of satirical pokes at priests, instead of boycotting a retailer selling words you don't like, I wonder how many of you are prepared to boycott an organized religion with a history of engaging in the act, like, for real and shit. Any Amazon-boycotting Catholics out there care to comment?

Roots of Empathy

2010-11-04T09:50:00.000-07:00

By now we've all seen the speech on bullying given by Fort Worth City Councilman, Joel Burns. If you haven't, you should check it out. Go ahead. We'll wait.

I am currently part of an anti-bullying program at The Kid's school. I actually signed up before I knew it had anything to do with bullying; all I knew at the time was that the school was looking for parents with new babies to volunteer in 3rd grade classrooms one day each month. I signed up, thinking there couldn't be a better volunteer opportunity for me, and found out only later that the program, called Roots of Empathy, is aimed at reducing aggression among schoolchildren.

Each participating classroom has a Roots of Empathy instructor who visits three times each month, and a "class baby" who visits (along with his/her parent(s)) once each month. The students observe the nonverbal communication cues of the baby and the responses of the parent, and guess what either might be feeling. The instructor guides the observation process, asks the parent questions about his/her interactions with the baby, and prepares follow-up activities for the kids. In theory, the program helps build the emotional literacy needed for schoolchildren to empathize with one another.

I don't know that The Baby's presence in a classroom is ultimately going to save any lives, but maybe it'll help, just a little, to keep kids from taunting and punching each other quite so much. Every little bit helps.

There's something about Mommy

2010-10-19T18:43:00.000-07:00

It's an early morning feeding, and my bleary eyes wander from the face of my contentedly nursing baby to my own lap. I'm naked from the waist down, a testament to the baby-thwarted lovemaking session earlier that night. Nothing wakes a peacefully slumbering baby more quickly than the mere idea that his parents might be getting ready to do it in the bed next to him. Ours woke, right on cue, and determinedly fussed and fidgeted until well past 1:00 am. By the time The Man got him back to sleep in his bassinet and rolled over to finish what he'd started, I was all like, "Yeah, baby, [snore], let's [snore], do this thing [snore]!" And then I fell fast asleep. And now I sit in bed, half-naked and shivering in the early October morning chill, trapped between the jaws of a ravenous 7-week-old, wishing I'd had the motivation to put at least my underwear back on. Such is the sex life of new parents.

After nearly 40 minutes of frantic sucking, he finally spits out my nipple with a satisfied sigh and I sit him on my lap for a vigorous burping. He follows a couple manly belches with a wet gurgle, and then spews half the content of my right boobie down his chin and onto his...

Wait.

Where did it go?

In a scene cut straight from There's Something About Mary, I search high and low for his shot wad, and can not find it anywhere. There's a trace amount on The Baby's nightshirt; enough to let me know that I didn't imagine the whole thing, but certainly not enough to represent the whole lot of it. I know there has to be a wet mess somewhere, but fuck it. It's 4 am, and I'm too tired to care. I finish burping him and hand him off to daddy to be re-swaddled and put back to sleep.

And that's when I notice the mess in my lap. I have an initial moment of panic, thinking that I've been stricken with the worst yeast infection anyone has ever suffered, ever. And by "ever," I mean "of all time, going back to the dark ages, EVER."

Eventually I recognize it for what it is and, as if locating regurgitated milk is somehow comparable to discovering a long lost earring in the far recesses of an old purse, I gleefully think to myself, "Yay! There it is!" I think this thought quite happily until a much louder, much more urgent thought rudely interrupts to scream: "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WOMAN! GET UP! THERE'S CURDLED MILK ON YOUR VA-JAY-JAY!!"

Different bodily fluid.

Different hair.

Just as gross.

Silly dreams

2010-10-12T18:39:00.000-07:00

When I had The Kid, I couldn't imagine being a stay-at-home-mom. I loved being the one taking care of him during my maternity leave (because, let's face it, no one could take care of him better than me, right?). But I'll be perfectly honest: I also found it horribly, horribly, mind-numbingly BORING.

Nurse. Change diaper. Rock to sleep. Nurse. Change diaper. Rock to sleep. Nurse. Change diaper. Rock to sleep.

Lather.

Rinse.

Repeat.

I'm not saying it wasn't hard work. I'm not saying it wasn't challenging. I'm not saying it wasn't rewarding. But it wasn't exactly mentally stimulating either.

But I was also young (25) and didn't have any friends with babies (nor had I ever heard of PEPS). Most of my hobbies required far more mobility than a baby allowed. I had career goals that hadn't yet been achieved. And I was too stubbornly independent to even consider for a moment allowing some other person to earn all the money and support me. Ew.

Staying at home just was not for me, and at the end of my 2-1/2 months of maternity leave I was more than ready to return to work.

My, how things have changed...

If I had the option of staying home with The Baby, I would. Without hesitation. In a heartbeat. I would stay home with him, never send The Kid to after-school care again, cook real dinners nightly, and - I think - really enjoy being a full-time caretaker. Especially after so many years of being a single working mother, forced to multitask the act of parenting (anyone else quiz your child on his multiplication tables while he's taking a shower?).

I'm sure I would still find the tedium in the arrangement; sure I would still find aspects of full-time mommyhood to be less than stimulating. But dammit, I want to do it! I want to be "just" a mom, with the ability to put all of my focus and energy into parenting. At least for a little while.

This desire startles me a bit, so far removed is it from where I once was. Maybe it's because I don't particularly enjoy my day job anymore. Maybe it's because I've already climbed as high up the corporate ladder as I ever want to (and, in fact, have been purposefully and determinedly climbing back down). Maybe I've already proven what I needed about my abilities to myself. Maybe it's because I've done this before, and I know that those first few months are the most "boring" they'll ever be; that children get more and more interesting the older they get. Maybe it's because I have a 9-year-old who was, I swear, a new born just last week. Maybe it's because I can see a huge benefit to The Kid as well as The Baby - possibly, even, a bigger benefit to The Kid than to The Baby - if I were to stay home. Maybe it's because I am a mammal after all, and whatever latent maternal instincts we humans have retained demand that I stay close to my children. Maybe it's just time for something different.

Whatever the reason for this change of heart, the fact remains that staying home is not a possibility. Financially, there's just no way. So I will make the most of the short time I have at home with my kids and, when it comes time, go back to work with a heavy heart.

And everything will be fine, just like it was before. Maybe it's for the best. The fact that I've recently taken to reenacting Laser Cats (but with babies!) should make it pretty clear that the boredom has already begun to creep in.

Baby log: Day 34

2010-10-01T11:13:00.000-07:00

It occurs to me that I am flooding Twitter with nothing but baby-related tweets lately. The obvious reason for this is that I'm completely baby-occupied 100% of the time. The obvious downside of this is that my tweets have grown grown tedious and tiresome; a far cry from the 120-character literary masterpieces of days gone by. So instead of interrupting everyone repeatedly with news no more exciting than the contents of my baby's latest poopy diaper, I shall record my baby-related musings in a log and publish it here, no more than once daily. Deal?

9:00 am
This is how they sleep, all night long. It explains why nap time is such a nightmare, so accustomed is The Baby to sleeping in the crook of an arm. It also explains why my baby's head always carries the humid scent of his daddy's arm pit. If they weren't so freaking precious, I wouldn't allow it.

10:00 am
Every time The Baby burps, I have to take off an article of clothing. It's like a game of strip poker in here... but with more spit-up.

10:07 am
I am now completely naked.

11:00 am
Found myself singing this song to The Baby in lieu of a lullaby. Tsk if you must, but guess whose baby is now sound asleep.

1:30 pm
Another feeding; another game of strip poker.

2:15 pm
I'm sick with a sore throat and mildly swollen tonsils. Safe to say The Baby isn't feeling well either. This baby who doesn't nap has been napping all day. Just changed his diaper, got up to wash my hands, and he's zonked out again on the floor where I left him without so much as a wet pinky to suck on. Fine. I guess it wasn't "What What in the Butt" that lulled him off to sleep this morning after all.

6:15 pm
Pretty sure my right nipple has a stress fracture.

6:30 pm
It occurs to me that I haven't brushed my teeth all day.

Baby log: Day 33

2010-09-30T21:00:00.000-07:00

It occurs to me that I am flooding Twitter with nothing but baby-related tweets lately. The obvious reason for this is that I'm completely baby-occupied 100% of the time. The obvious downside of this is that my tweets have grown grown tedious and tiresome; a far cry from the 120-character literary masterpieces of days gone by. So instead of interrupting everyone repeatedly with news no more exciting than the contents of my baby's latest poopy diaper, I shall record my baby-related musings in a log and publish it here, no more than once daily. Deal?

10:00 am
Able to set The Baby down for two minutes! Now I'm wearing pants!

12:00 pm
It's acceptable to shout "SHUT UP!" at your baby after an hour of straight howling, right? Oh. No? Okay then. I was just asking for a friend.

2:00 pm
The cow says, "Moooooo." The Baby is eating every 45 minutes. I feel like live stock.

3:00 pm
Yes, friendly co-shoppers, he is cute. He's also screaming, and has been doing so for the past three hours. I'm not really in the mood for your chit chat OR your sympathetic gazes.

3:40 pm
I've caved. There is now a dreaded pacifier shoved in The Baby's mouth. Maybe now I can have some lunch.

5:00 pm
The nightly mantra begins: "only 2-1/2 more hours... only 2-1/2 more hours... only 2-1/2 more hours..." Nose pressed to window, waiting for Daddy to come home.

8:30 pm
Warning: objects ordered online are larger than they appear.

Baby bath? Fuck that. Nothing less that a baby spa for my little one.

Naming Jupiter

2010-09-25T14:48:00.000-07:00

After nearly four weeks without a name, we've finally come to a decision. Everybody, I'd like you to meet Michael Avi.

We call him Avi. He's one of those smug "I go by my middle name" babies.

During my pregnancy, I wrote about the last name debate as The Man and I tried to decide whose last name to give the baby. In the end, we gave him mine. Yay for another little [my last name] in the world! Michael was chosen as his first name in honor of The Man's dad. And Avi is something The Man suggested; one of the few names on the list that we both liked.

And so, finally, that deed is done and The Baby has his own identity. Hopefully the name will serve him well. If not, he can always resort to Jupiter Bighead, a name his big brother promises to keep in heavy rotation.

The unnamable baby

2010-09-20T11:27:00.000-07:00

The Baby turned 3-weeks-old on Saturday, and we celebrated by refusing to name him.

Here's a tip to all of you future parents out there: settle on a name BEFORE the baby is born. It's much easier to arbitrarily pick a name you like and slap it on the baby the second he exits the birth canal than it is to see him and get to know him and attempt to find a name that actually fits him.

That is what we are struggling with. There's nothing, at least from my perspective, that properly captures this being. He was born into the world in such a way that I thought we were going to lose him. But he muscled through. He suffered a broken collar bone in the process, but he muscled through. He's a strong, tough guy. But he's also wonderfully serene (when he's not hungry or wet or gassy) and observant, which leads me to imagine him growing into a perceptive and calmly wise young man.

Where is the name that is strong and serene and wise?

Add to that struggle the fact that The Man and I do not have similar tastes in baby names. He describes my suggestions as "paste-eater" and "mouth-breather" names. I describe his as unpronouncable and complicated (or, in one instance, a dog's name). I fear we will never agree, and the child will forever be known as Jupiter Bighead.

Suggested so far (though most of these have been crossed off by one or the other of us):

Maceo
Jude
Oliver
Jove
Rex
Lorca
Spica
Finn
Luca
Locke
Avi
Avery
Michael (in honor of The Man's dad)

What would you name this little man (who, by the way, is much more handsome in real life)?

Band of brothers

2010-09-15T14:11:00.001-07:00

I spent a good portion of my pregnancy worried about how The Kid would handle having a little brother after 9 years as an only child. I worried that he wouldn't understand why all my attention was suddenly redirected towards someone else; worried that he would resent The Baby; worried that he would feel neglected. I envisioned a 9-year-old wallowing in self-pity.

I grossly underestimated my child.

Instead, The Kid has been nothing but an attentive older brother. He wanders over to gently pet The Baby's head whenever I'm nursing. He peppers his cheeks with soft kisses. He sits perfectly still on the couch, patiently waiting for the chance to hold the little one. He sets aside toys and blankets to pass on, and makes plans for teaching The Baby to play soccer and skateboard. He comes running to The Baby's play mat when he starts to cry and vigorously shakes the nearest rattle. When The Baby is inconsolable and screaming in my arms, he thoughtfully goes through the checklist with me: is he hungry? is he wet? does he have a poopy? maybe he's sleepy? maybe he misses his daddy? When I'm inconsolable after hours of rocking an inconsolable baby, he sits at my side and gently rubs my back. And when he tires of being an older brother and runs off to play, he always tells me where he's going, just in case I might need his help with anything.

Yesterday at school, he was given an assignment to write a thank you letter to anyone in the whole world. He picked his baby brother:

Dear Jupiter Bighead,

Thanks for many things. I appreciate you being born. I also thank you for taking good naps. Finally, thanks for being cute.

Love,
The Kid

May things always be this good, forever and ever, amen.

Portrait of a new mother

2010-09-06T19:25:00.000-07:00

She is perched precariously at the edge of the toilet, arms straining to take some of the weight off her torn perineum. She is completely naked, hair still wet from the shower. The urge to go struck just as she was drying off, and she knows this to be a "use it or lose it" moment. Lose it, and face a fate worse than pooping through a web of stitches; lose it, and face constipation; lose it, and face forcefully pooping through the same web of stitches.

This is not the kind of thing one should rush. There is no pushing allowed here. She sits. She waits, anxiously anticipating the sting. Her engorged right breast drips milk down her belly where it pools in her navel before spilling onto her thigh, already negating her rushed shower. She is not a religious woman, but she is audibly thanking the mighty lord she doesn't believe in for the blessed miracle that is stool softener.

She holds her breath. And then, without much fanfare, it's over.

This is motherhood.

In this moment, it is completely miserable. And in this moment, it is completely, utterly, totally worth it.

Blogging by bullets

2010-09-01T09:44:00.000-07:00

A quick update:

Yes, baby is finally here. No, we haven't named him yet. For now we call him any of the following: Baby, Hey You, Whats-his-name, That Guy, Jupiter BigHead.
An actual birth story will be shared... eventually. In the meantime: went into labor early Saturday morning; got to the hospital a little before 5 am; contractions were already very strong and progress was quick; doctor broke my water around 7 am and with the very next contraction I was pushing; on the contraction after that, they told me to stop pushing; I tried - I really, really tried; I had maybe two or three more contractions and it was time; after two contractions/pushes, the threat of a vacuum was issued (baby in distress); on the third contraction, I was determined - three pushes and his enormous head was out; on the next push, bad things happened; the panic button was pushed; more nurses/doctors arrived; the weight of an entire medical team was pushing on my abdomen; everyone looked panicked; and then the relief of the rest of his body sliding out.
He was born at 7:41 a.m., weighing 9lbs 8oz
His shoulders had gotten stuck on my pelvis. He was trapped, hence the panic.
Despite his forced exit, neither of his shoulders was fractured.
I wanted to go natural, and I did. No epidural.
I know natural is not for everyone, but I'm not going to lie: it's hard to deny how bad ass you are after something like that. I am bad ASS, people.
I'm recovering nicely, needing nothing more than ibuprofren for the dull throb in my undercarriage.
My milk is in.
Baby is not a natural nurser, but we're working on it and he's getting better. Docs are concerned about his weight and his blood sugars, since he's not (or hadn't been) eating well. Weight will be checked tomorrow, but I'm pretty confident that the recent improvements in latch-on will mean everything's back on track.
He's borderline jaundicey. Not of concern yet, but we're keeping an eye on it.
I'm not bragging, but he's sleeping 5 hours at night. FIVE FREAKING HOURS. The Kid didn't do that until he was nearly a year old.
Ironically, I can not be entirely pleased about the previous bullet. Given the weight/nursing issues, he really should be eating every 2 hours.
The Kid is a really awesome big brother and mother's helper. I couldn't be more pleased with him. Both baby and kid are currently crashed out in the living room, snoring in unison.
The Man is a really awesome dad. I couldn't be more pleased with him either. (Though I wish he didn't have to work this week. I am NOT pleased with The Man's boss.)
The kitchen is nearly done, but the house is still completely torn apart. Should be done this week. Meanwhile, we're hanging out at my mom's place during the day.
And now The Babyis awake, so this post must come to an end. More later...