A Message for Husbands...

While I am blessed with an exceptional husband who does not neglect me on Mother's Day, I have heard of so many women who receive no special treatment on this well-deserved day of recognition because their husbands have the attitude "well you're not my mother." I think when it comes to Mother's Day being the mother to his child(ren) is almost equal as being his actual mom. Plus, women are not looking for expensive gifts (well, most non-gold digging women). We just want to be honored and appreciated at least one day of the year.

It wouldn't cost a husband a dime to write a letter to his wife that explains how much he appreciates being his daughter's mother. Or what if he does all the night-time duties one evening (from dinner to bedtime)? Husbands could simply give wives a "day off" so that they could wander around their favorite bookstore, library, park or store without a child dangling from their legs begging for mommy to "Pick me UP!" or screaming "But I want that!" Husbands could pack a special Mother's Day picnic lunch and take the family to the park or just in the background for a nice lunch. Husbands could let wives pick a romantic movie to rent (if that's your preference) without grumbling about it. Or one night let wives watch whatever tv shows they want without him flipping through the channels OR saying how dumb it is to watch another home improvement show

And, of course, who can deny the beauty of the classic breakfast in bed? Give me the NY Times, a bagel and a cup of coffee while I lounge in my oh-so-comfy bed and I am happy. Give me an hour or so by myself to read that paper and I am even happier.

Men think we are so complicated...please.

Happy Mother's Day to everyone!

Delivery

*Blogger's Note - I wrote this essay two years ago, and I have shopped it around for publication (with no luck). So I thought I would post it here to honor my daughter's third birthday.

Delivery

Daylight slipped away for a second time. Time, measured by savage pulls in my uterus and ascending and descending line graphs, was working against us. At 4 o’clock in the afternoon I finally agreed to the epidural in hopes it would help, but now it was 8 p.m. My obstetrician checks me again; no progress. “What do you want to do?” While my doctor carefully explains my options, my husband clenches my hand. He is scared. I am devastated.

Over twenty-four hours ago we took the planned Sunday evening journey to the hospital for my induction. Due to a history of blood clots I had been injecting blood thinners into my abdomen since my 13th week of pregnancy. Now at my 39th week I had been experiencing sporadic labor pains for seven days, but the induction was necessary so the possibly troublesome bleeding could be controlled. As the nurse set up the fetal monitor that first evening she remarked “you may not even need Pitocin.” Pointing to the screen she confirmed what I suspected; the labor pains were real and measurable. “It looks like the Cervadil may be enough to get you going.”

My mind wandered to my highly anticipated final moments of labor. A soccer coach-like nurse stands next to my bedside holding one leg as I bear down per her instructions. I hear her matronly voice, “that’s it…good girl…more, more, more, more.” Dr. Joseph Wallis, stationed at the base of my bed, patiently tells me to “relax a bit…now you can do this.” I, of course, am propped on my elbows grunting, groaning, moaning this child loose from my seemingly spastic womb. My husband, his smooth cheek pressed up against my drenched face, tightly grasps my hand. Peter bites his lip as he does whenever he is concerned, but the hopeful glow radiates from his eyes. Just a few seconds more until she is on my chest. Pain. Pressure. “Push!” He looks at me and I at him – “she’s here.”

By Monday night, though, I am not dilated at all. Hours of labor had not produced even enough space for Dr. Wallis to break my water. I hear him say “it’s up to you. We can stop the Pitocin and try again tomorrow."

Peter holds on to my hand. “What do you think babe?” My fearful tears turn into heaving sobs. I desperately want those final moments, the ones that I had been dreaming about since we saw two lines on a stick. I could almost feel my new baby on my chest. I could see my husband’s adoring eyes sprinkling her with his tears. I want that for us, for him. I sputter, “I don’t know.” Dr. Wallis, perhaps assuming my fears were physical, reiterates my options. “We could stop now, let your body rest, and try again tomorrow. But I suspect that will not produce different results. Or we could do a C-section tonight.” My whimpers continue.

“I understand my choices,” I explain. “But I wanted…it’s just not what I…for us, I mean…I wanted that moment when…” Unable to say anymore, I pantomime my delivery dream, an odd game of charades to show what my vision of childbirth should be. It does not involve surgeon masks, bright lights, or a curtain blocking our view of the birth of our first child. “How can I let that go?” Grief consumes me again and the sobs return. “I will make sure she comes right over to you,” Dr. Wallis assures us. “Let me give you guys some time to make the decision.”

Peter sits on the side of the bed. “What is it hon? Talk to me.” After a deep cleansing breath I can speak again. I share my detailed dream of our daughter’s delivery. “I really wanted that for us. I really wanted to share experience with you.” He surveys my exhausted face. “It doesn’t matter how she is delivered. It only matters that she and you are healthy. We will have plenty of amazing family experiences together.” I sigh. “I know.”

“OK, you are going to feel some pressure,” Dr. Wallis explains as what feel like a truck thrusts into my rib cage. Peter, donning the traditional doctor garb, presses his slightly prickly cheek into mine. “You’re doing great babe. I am so proud of you.”

I look at him and he at me; simultaneously we turn our heads to the right. Our crimson-skinned baby girl seemingly floats centimeters from my face. The nurse places our daughter's cheek next to mine. “Oh my God,” I whisper. “She’s here.” I turn to my husband whose eyes sparkle as he drinks his daughter’s precious face for the first time.

This was our moment. It was perfect.  

Do? Do?

When I became a parent, my heart exploded and my whole world opened.  I learned about simple things.  How to make a perfect bottle.  How to swaddle a newborn baby.  How to give a squirmy child a bath.  I learned about the big things too.  How to love someone unconditionally.  How to emotionally connect with someone who cannot even speak.  How to let go of my wants for her needs.  But I also learned about something else.  Something that everyone does, but few people talk about.  Something that can make someone's day or keep someone cranky (and crampy).

That's right, people, I'm talking about poop.

Who knew another person's bowel movements could create such angst or give me such satisfaction?  Since the day she left my body, we talk about Princess's poop...a lot.  Just to clarify, though, Princess has had some "digestion" issues since birth, so there was plenty of material to work with.  

By the time my baby turned 3, though, I had hoped we would have shifted our topic focus.  Alas, we have not.  Now we just focus our conversation about where she did the doody - in a pull-up or on the potty?  Every day I have to ask her teacher the same question, "Did she have a bowel movement today?"  Every night as Princess rocks side-to-side while straining to hold the poopy inside her body, I have to explain that everybody goes poop.  She requires I recall the long list of everyone we know who goes poop.  

"Yes, Daddy goes poop.  Mommy goes poop.  Your teacher goes poop.  Amanda goes poop.  Mandie goes poop.  The postman goes poop.  Our dog goes poop.  Even grandma does."  And it goes on and on.  Anyone my daughter has ever met must be included in the list.  

Do you know how unsettling it is to think about everyone you know pooping?  Sit with that for a moment, if you will.

Not pleasant, I know.

But Princess's poops continue to be my husband and mine most-frequently discussed topics (along with people who piss us off and world peace).  And it looks as though it will be that way for many months in the future.  

Crap.

Bunny Love

Our princess showing the bunny some love!  There is no witty story to accompany the photo.  It was just too cute NOT to publish (in my completely biased opinion)!

Purge (the good kind)

A week off...a glorious collection of days when I do not have to sojourn down state to my job, one that I am still not sure if I like.  Well, I like that I get a week off every now and then, so let's keep it positive today, okay?

Yes, so one week off...what to do?  what to do?  Write my novel?  Finish the 3 articles I started (and by started I mean I've thought about writing them)?  Prepare an outline for my idea for a play - the opening scene I keep seeing over and over again in my head?  These are all things I keep saying I will get to - when I have time.  And yet here I am day four into actually having the time, and nada...  Oh procrastination, you cruel, cruel seductress.

BUT I did not loaf around on the couch all week, surfing tv channels and web sites (well, a bit, but I am on vacation).  No, I decided to purge...my clutter.  The junk around my house that just makes me nuts and blocks my ability to feel peaceful in my own home had to go.  So I tackled the dreaded "crap room."  You know, the room in the house where everything you don't know what to do with gets dumped.  Yep, I tore that baby up and threw out 4 huge bags of paper, knick knacks, unused photo albums, questionable gifts (does my mother-in-law even like me?) and pretty much anything else with a 1/4" of dust on it.  

And damn - it felt good.  

I now have a guest room where guests can actually put things in the closet.  I moved a small, formerly clutter-filled book shelf into our bedroom, where it magically transformed a lonely corner into a beloved book nook (complete with reading chair and lamp).   All that on day 1.  

Days 2 & 3 lead me to other rooms of the house.  I disassembled a basement corner where the remains of my product sales business had gathered to commiserate about yet another great idea I did not have the time or energy to keep up.  I cleared out the bottom of my closet, finally discarding all those shoe boxes that I kept because I was going to store my shoes in them (and yet I had 15 empty ones...perplexing, I know). 

And finally, I pillaged the junk-filled secretary desk, the one that when I splurged and ordered it from Pottery Barn I swore I would keep it neat.  Well, it is no longer a $1600 crap cabinet.  It is now a functional workspace - one that beckons me, no pleads with me, to put my shiny black laptop on its clean desk and write that article, book and script.  Yet, here I sit at the dining room table...

I think I'll go catch a movie before I pick up Princess from school.        

Good question...

Just a short post tonight as I am really too angry to think logically or compose eloquently.  But I have to get this one off my chest.

If you don't know the answer to an important question, please ask someone.  Conduct some meaningful research.  Seek out those who did the job before you for advice.   Do not make up information, yes me to death or say you'll look into it and then not.  That does not make you look like you know what you are doing.  In the end, it makes you look like a fool, and it can have some serious consequences for innocent people.  

I always told my students that good students don't always know the right answers; good students know how to ask good questions.

The same applies to colleagues and supervisors...Grrr.

Moving On Up....

To the big girl bed.  Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the crib came down.  My husband unscrewed every nut and bolt, slowly dismantling it piece by piece.  And I will admit - as I watched I got a little teary-eyed.  

I remember her first night in that crib.  She was 10 weeks old and quickly outgrowing the bassinet I had tucked right next to my side of the bed since the first night we brought her home. I used to fall asleep with my hand on her soft belly so I could feel her breathe.  Her legs, though, stretched to the end of the baby cocoon (the one I once called home when I was a newborn).  So we decided to move her into the cherry crib we had carefully selected a few months before she was born.  On that first night, I sobbed after we placed her in her crib and closed the nursery door.

This weekend she pounced into her Disney princess adorned toddler bed, just the way big girls do.  She delighted in her pink comforter and her Cinderella pillowcase.  She spent all day Sunday finding excuses to go upstairs so she could nestle into her new resting spot.  It was really adorable.

When her first bedtime came, she joyfully crawled into her bed.  "Mommy," she whispered.  "Sleep next to me."  After finally believing me when I said we both could not comfortably fit into her tiny bed, Princess agreed I could rest on the floor next to her.  So I settled into a body pillow on her floor while my baby girl cuddled in for her first night in her big bed.  

As we laid there in the dark, tiny fingers crept to the side of the mattress.  "Mommy, hold my hand."  When my fingers rested on her soft palm, it was as if she was that snuggly swaddled newborn tucked safely in her tiny bassinet again...only better.  There were no tears this time as I closed that nursery door...only warm smiles for my daughter's latest joy.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              

got hope?

Oh Hillary...you just don't get it.  

He's the golden boy now.  He's the guy.  He's the one that millions of U.S. citizens believe can and will inspire a nation.  He makes people feel something they haven't felt in a long time - hopeful.  You just can't do that.  

Now, you try.  We can see it at the rallies especially.  You have a fantastic smile.  You can clap to a beat.  You give the good ol' "thumbs up" sign.  You point to people in the crowd and mouth "thank you" as if you just ate dinner at their houses. You wave to the crowds like a former Miss America second place finisher who truly believes the audience knows who she is.  But something is wrong.  

As I watch you at rallies, in debates, and in diners (remember the tears?), I believe you are running this campaign based on a deep need to be vindicated.  You want those politicians who tried to bring your family down with Whitewater and blue dresses to have to answer to you.  You want to show Bill that you are a person who is respected by the American people.  You want to be remembered as a great President not the wife who stayed with an unfaithful one.   

It's selfish Hillary, and people do not respond to selfish.  Now I really don't think most people are acutely aware that this redemptive desire drives your campaign.  I am not sure you have even allowed yourself to consciously recognize it.  However, every undecided voter I talk to says something to the effect of, "I don't know.  There's just something I don't like about her." That something is your burning need to set the record straight.  You have brains.  You have guts.  And you are desperate for everyone to know it.  

But now you have entered a new domain; now you are bitter.  Who does Barack Obama think he is swooping in to steal your moment?  This was yours...go back 5 years and check the polls.  Everyone said you would win.  But you are not winning.  And you are pissed.  That anger is palpable.  In last night's debate, your poorly crafted attempts to stand-up for yourself while also disparaging Barack's positions sounded whiny and mean.    If you couldn't inspire a nation when you thought you were the "sure thing," did you think you would inspire a nation by badgering Brian Williams about which questions you are asked and in what order? 

Of course Maureen Dowd's editorial in today's New York Times does a much better job than I have in analyzing your campaign's disintegration, so I highly suggest you read it.   But if you don't have time (as I suspect you don't because you are busy getting those tax returns ready), just think about this for a moment.  

We live in a country where people are as desperate to be seen and heard as you are.  They don't want to compete with you for your attention.  They know that once you get into that big house, you will take advantage of every opportunity you have to prove yourself to all those who doubted you.  People feel like Senator Obama hears them.  They believe he wants to work hard to make their lives better.  They know he has years of experience doing just that whether it was working as a community activist, a civil rights lawyer or a politician.  

But most poignantly, he makes people believe in themselves again because he truly believes in them.  And that, dear Hillary, is what hope is all about.        

The Show Must Go On...

Yep, a beloved American tradition has finally arrived.  The first snow day of the school year!  While most children romp in pillows of snow, my Princess sobs uncontrollably.  "But Mommy, it's movie star day at school!"  Yes, my daughter is devastated because it is Red Carpet Day at her preschool, and she is stuck hanging out with her mom.  Red Carpet Day is fun.  All the little tots dress up in their fanciest attire, walk the red carpet (plastic tablecloth), wave to their adoring fans (teachers), conduct interviews with nosy reporters (teachers again) and have their pictures taken by the surging paparazzi (school directors).  But the snow has taken all that joy away from my little girl.

So at 9:30 a.m. when most children are stuffing themselves into inflatable snowsuits and moonboots, Princess is donning her black velvet dress, expertly accessorized with pink jewelry, pink sequin pocketbook and her blue Cinderella headband.  Wearing no shoes (because they would only slow her down), she struts her stuff on our makeshift runway proclaiming that she is a movie star and a princess.  The paparazzi did show....

 along with her adoring fans (aka mom and dad).  She laughs in the face of snow day traditions! Who needs sleds and snowballs when you can have photo shoots and ivory bows?

I honestly don't know where she came from.  This sports-loving, long-devoted feminist remains stunned at the girly girl way my daughter walks through her life.  But she is fabulous!  And I am so lucky she is mine.

Happy Snow Day!

Instead...

Having some bad days at work...bear with me as I muse about what I career I could have instead:

• Personal chef...for non-picky friendly families only
• Writer...probably of children's books b/c my attention span lacks stamina
• Candle shop owner...at least my office wouldn't smell like the home-ec room all the time
• Event planner...again, for nice, reasonable people only 
• Professional book club facilitator...just love talking about books
• Bookstore owner...the independent kind with charm, loyal customers, and no nearby Borders.
• Gourmet food buyer...spending my days tasting great cheese - heaven
• Consultant...maybe I'd be more effective in my career if the same people didn't piss me off everyday
• Photographer...for Sports Illustrated - I love their photography
• Teacher...oh wait - I gave up that career for this one...(sigh)

What would you do instead?

The Biter

Princess was attacked.  

The attacker's teeth missed her eye by less than a centimeter.  On her cheekbone, a magenta temporary tattoo-like imprint of each tooth.  The assailant had to be pulled off her face.  Miraculously, the skin was not broken.  No, it was not a pit bull or a doberman that pounced on my little girl.  It was a two and a half year old boy - the biter of her class.  And I have had enough.

Princess's teacher called me on Friday morning to tell me what happened.  She assured me that Princess was fine, and I have the luxury to verify that by the class webcam.  Miss P told me Princess did not provoke the attack at all.  She was simply sitting at her table coloring her picture when the biter gestured as if he was going to hug her.  He leaned in and bit her face.  My heart raced, but again Miss P said Princess was fine, but there would be a bruise.  In my mind I pictured a typical blue bruise, maybe the size of a quarter.  That is why I was completely unprepared for the reality of the redish/purple explosion on her cheekbone.  It left me speechless.  I fought back tears.  Princess, though, was her happy self so I did my best not to let my astonishment show.  I was sad, and then I was pissed.  

The Biter has attacked my daughter (and other children) before, but never like this one.  This one was bad.  Both my husband and I spoke to the director.  We think this child who has pattern of biting should be asked to leave the school.  If he doesn't, we will.  It is difficult enough sending my daughter to daycare, much less worry about the Hannibal Lecter who lingers nearby as she eats her turkey sandwich.      

And now my educator voice whispers in my ear....what kind of house must the Biter live in so that he feels the only way he can express his emotions and/or get attention is to chomp his teeth into some other kid's arm, back or face?  I do feel for the Biter.

But my mom voice yells even louder, "But he needs to stay away from my little girl."  

(Woman sheepishly reenters her blog) Anyone here?

Wow, I suck....October, huh?  I was always going to get around to posting, but I feel as though I ran out of things to say.  Of course, I didn't.  It was just an excuse not to have to post.  Now I know no one is reading this anymore as I have left my few faithful readers down.  But I promise if you venture back....well I will try to make it worth your while.  I may even add a few pictures to make the page a bit more flashy!  I did get a sparkly new laptop for Christmas (yes, I am now a Mac owner) so I am anxious to try out all its bells and whistles.  

Anyway, it is odd that today is the day I decide to post.  I have spent this last week feeling really "off," and I have not been able to put my finger on why.  Yes, princess has been extra whiny this week.  True, work has been extra stressful.  I know, money is always a concern, especially after we drop a few grand on a weekend away (had to - it was for a wedding - ok, ok, didn't have to go to the spa for two treatments before the wedding, but let's not talk about that).  But something is tugging at me, making my eye twitch, my heart tighten and my stomach lurch.  Now I watched the Oprah on intuition so I know I should listen to the tug, but I am, damnit.  I just don't know what it is saying!  Talk to me intuity - talk to me!

Nothing.  

Maybe it is just indigestion.