hErDIng sQUirReLs

Dear Harrison:

Thirteen years ago, I found myself expecting the next chapter in the great adventure of our family to begin. I was slow and heavy, my enormous belly dragging behind me as I walked like some great, pregnant rat. Just a few years before I’d been convinced that no other woman in the history of the human race had ever been that large in her 3rd trimester: I was wrong. I was pregnant with your brother then, and was 30 pounds lighter. With you, I threw all caution to the fore winds and by enjoying all the foods life had to offer. ALL. THE. FOODS.

On the eve of your birth, I was 52 pounds heavier than the day your little life first sparked inside me.

I enjoyed every minute of your pregnancy, as there was no morning sickness; no headaches; backaches, yes, but like I said, 52 pounds—that’s a lot of mama, with a pinch of baby thrown in for good measure. But I felt great almost the whole time. Unlike my previous too-obsessed-to-exist first pregnancy, you and I had a blast just growing with each other.

When you were but a lima bean inside me, we hiked to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. Perhaps this is where you developed your adventurous spirit?

Time passed and soon I became convinced you were a boy in that way that mothers sometimes just know these things. You were named in part after your raucous, salty grandfather, my father, and from whom I think you got your amazing wit and ribald sense of humor.

On the day after your due date my outlook on pregnancy had changed somewhat. I lumbered into the doctor’s office in tears; all the assurances of the world that you would be early had backfired. I cried to the doctor, trying to convince her that no other human being had ever been so fat and uncomfortable. She laughed.

I successfully kept myself from killing her. To this day, I count this as one of my better accomplishments. Had I not been on my back, trapped under my own girth, there’s no saying what would have happened.

In the end, I think my tears—and perhaps the wrath exploding from of my forehead—convinced her of my misery: The joys of pregnancy were DONE. I could not go on. She did what she could to help my labor begin, and smiled gently as I left, making no promises.

I waddled about my day. It was sometime in the afternoon that I noticed that the contractions were “for reals and trues” (scientific term). Rushing to the hospital, I was convinced I was about to have you at any second, right there on the hospital floor. I COULD NOT LET THIS HAPPEN. I needed that epidural first. That was vital—I could not go through another labor like last time.  I was in enough pain at this point that I KNEW they would declare me halfway through the process of labor and give me the meds on the spot.

“A fingertip,” said the nurse. I hated her instantly. She was a heinous harpy, anybody could see that. “We can’t admit you until 3 centimeters. Walk around.”

I walked for an hour trying to stimulate labor further, at which point harpy begrudgingly admitted me to a birthing room. I began singing, “I got a golden tickettttt…” Harpy did not even snicker. I commenced hating her more.

Still, I smiled. I breathed. Both right after I requested an epidural. YOU HAVE TO UNDERSTAND. I’d done natural childbirth the first time. Your brother was born face-up, cord wrapped twice around his neck. It was a terribly painful birth involving a vacuum extractor. They spent more time stitching me up and delivering the baby.

No. I was swathed in fear. Emotionally, I wasn’t sure I could do that again. You aren’t supposed to remember labor pains. I remembered ALL OF THEM. I also named them. (Pregnant moms: Beware the pain called “Walter.”)

So I moved quickly. The anesthesiologist was on his way. I galumphed into the shower—they had a shower! Just for us laboring ones! It was amazingly relaxing. About then your grandmother arrived, and helped me to the bed. That’s when my angel-like anesthesiologist aka MY HERO entered the room, and I could hear cherubin and seraphim singing. I laid perfectly still and gazed upon his halo. All would be fine. I just knew it, All would be pain free. All would be OK.

AAAaand that’s when I promptly doubled over, announcing I needed to… do… something. Bathroom related.

The doctor held up both hands in surrender. “Check her,” he said. My brain was screaming. Why did he stop? WHY?

“She was admitted an hour ago. She was at 3,” the slathering harpy countered. “She can’t be at 10.”

“I’m not giving her the epidural until you check her.” Standoff. The nurse and the doctor eyed each other. Silence.

“OK let me help,” I said, as I rolled over, trying to speed things along.

Harpy checked. “She’s at 10, time to push.”

WAItwaitwaitwaitwaaaaaaaiiit… “Uhm what, now? What about the epidural?” I mumbled meekly. Or who knows, maybe I shouted it. My hearing had shut down at this point, my vision gone all tunnelly.

“There’s no time,” she said, her forked tongue flickering at me. “You’re too far along.” She was too far away for me to throttle. I thus began to panic. And cry. And hyperventilate. And do all those other anxiety-related scary things. “No, wait,” I begged. “Please, I need something…”

That’s when nurse harpy grabbed me—actually GRABBED me—by both shoulders and shook me one good shake. “Get a hold of yourself.” She had coffee breath. “You are GOING to have THIS BABY in 3 PUSHES—within 15 minutes this will ALL.BE. OVER.”

So maybe Harpy wasn’t so bad after all. She had gotten my attention, and calmed me. Three  pushes, fifteen minutes later, and there you were, your perfectly round little rapid-birth head, your sweet little newborn cry. Make no bones about it—I felt every subtle nuance of your arrival—and it was ok. I was ok. You were perfect.

I gazed at your sweet little toothless mouth and smiled at the clicking sound you made with your tongue. And your eyes—here we’d just met formally, and we sat staring into each other’s eyes for hours.

I fell in love with you the moment I saw you, and have loved you every minute since. You have filled my days with endless laughter. From wrangling with Power Rangers to standing atop of the highest point of the jungle gym; from reading at age 4 to creating video games at age 11. Your enthusiasm for life, your wit, and your charm, your kindness and goodness—all are you, and you are a gift to those lucky enough to know you. I am so blessed.

Happy 13th birthday, bear.

Love,

yo mama

I survived. I had a great time.

Thank you Lexapro.

‘Twas the night before xmas and all through the house
every creature was stirring, while the kids began to grouse.
The stockings were not hung, there was stuff everywhere;
and mom was freaking out because the guests were almost there.

The table wasn’t set, and the dishes weren’t done.
Her horrible flu’d kept her from taking care of everyone.
But now that she had good meds on board,
she was seeing for the first time the creation by her hoard.

Clean laundry piled high on the living room floor;
unceremoniously dumped were blankets and shoes and more.
One child played video games, while another screamed, “I want a turn!”
That’s when Mom saw the toilet was stopped up, and noticed the ham had started to burn.

Mom cried, “Fifteen guests on their way for a special night here,
and my hubby ran to the store because we were all out of beer!
I have cheese but no crackers, so hors d’oeuvres are a fail.
I’ve got nothing to wear and I feel so pale.”

So she in her nausea gave her forehead a slap,
and sunk into a chair and wished for a nap.

“My toilet’s overflowing, those kids are shouting a lot.
My Ham’s crispier than bacon and the puppy just made that wet spot!”
Poor mom’s frustration was mounting almost fast as her fear;
so that’s when mom stopped her whining and slipped into high gear.

“Hey Walter! Hey Perry!” she shouted right quick.
“I need your help! And you, too, Lilah and Nick!”
She then set off marching her small soldiers about
and before she knew it, things changed inside out.

The laundry was hidden in the her bedroom upstairs,
and the toys and shoes were scooped up and stuffed about somewheres

Lilah and Nick then helped set the table,
while the toilet was unstopped by Audrey and Mable.
Walter and Perry washed the dishes with glee
while mom slunk to the floor, scrubbing up the puppy’s wee.

Soon the house, now shining and clean,
was “good enough for guests” as far as mom could gleen.
She ran to her room as the doorbell rang,
and threw off her robe with some muttered slang.

In two shakes she was dressed and then answered the door,
when up walked her hubby followed by three people more.
“There you are, darling!” She smiled, “did you get more beer?”
“That and some crackers. Have them both right here.”

Hubby sprang into the house, and gave quite a whistle.
“This place looks great– no longer been hit by a missle.
You were so sick, I thought we’d cancel this party.
How’d you pull it together? You are such a smarty!”

Mom smiled sweetly, and kicked a stray sock out of sight
“A Merry Christmas surprise. Let’s have a fun night.”

There are certain days when the daunting tasks of motherhood side-swipe me, catching me so completely off-balance that I’m shocked to find myself still functioning. Generally, my response at such times is annoyance, and as life’s nifty little events always happen in threes, so ratchets my agitation.

Case in point: Despite tutoring and various forms of assistance and intervention, it is revealed that Kid A has the worst report card ever in the history of report cards. (Only a slight exaggeration.) My internal frustration increases the more the lecture flows. My head explodes with questions, all centered on AM I DOING THIS RIGHT?  How am I supposed to parent, here?

Do such lectures even work? At what point is a kid responsible for monitoring his/her own schoolwork? When is it appropriate for a parent to nag a kid, and what level of naggery is good and what is too far? HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO HANDLE THIS knowing it’s not my fault so why do I feel GUILTY ANYWAY?!?!

The lecture continues all the way until we arrive to pick Kid B up from school. Kid B is in a bad mood; sulky and grumpy and sad and so the rest of the world better watch out. I am informed in the car of how I was doing it “wrong” again—my car transporting services arrived too soon. Usually I am “too late.” I have never found a “just right” and I’m starting to think that Goldilocks accidentally squished it out of existence somehow.

And so the flame increases under my evening already corrupted by boiling mommy anger.

Arriving home, I inform Kid C that we are turning off the video games; enough for tonight. I already dealt with the squabbling of Kid B over this, and Kid A knew better not to even exhale, let alone speak. Unbeknownst to Kid C, arguing with me over this point was futile before the requests even began. Still, the little lawyer persists, chipping away at my resolve, niggling, whining, borderline tantrum throwing until I shout—I actually SHOUT as I actually STORM into my bedroom—“ENOUGH!! You win! I am sick of this!!  DO WHATEVER THE (Expletive) YOU WANT!!” SLAM goes the door.

My anger has exploded, boiled over, splashed all over the stove of my sanity. I have come undone in front of the kids—no, AT the kids. I’ve become the very person I hate and I feel sick and disgusted with myself as my insides roil and still, ridiculously, I hold onto the anger like it’s some kind of prize.

I breathe.

I change out of my work clothes and into sweats. Breathe. I throw my hair into a ponytail, and step into my slippers. Breathe. I go downstairs to find three mild-mannered kids sitting in front of a warm fire.

I apologize. I feel shame. They forgive my tantrum. And luckily, I begin to feel human again.

The other morning I was listening to NPR’s California Report on my drive in to work.

My mind was swirling, like it almost always does at such times; thinking about upcoming holidays and visits to relatives, and what to make and what to talk about… or not talk about… whiiiiiiiich is almost always how I get hooked into my internal monologue.

I love my internal monologues. Sometimes, when I get really heated and need to just out-with-it, I make them external. They are excellent, elocutionary and riveting (if I do say so myself). They almost always happen when I am driving. And always when I’m alone.

My latest monologue dealt with an issue I care about greatly. I have a feeling it’s something most of us care about greatly.

I have a relative—a very dear and kind relative—who is sturdy in his beliefs. They are his very own, his very conservative and his very important beliefs, and they do not coincide with my very own, my very progressive and my very important beliefs… which is to say we do not talk about our beliefs to one another, so that we can continue liking each other as much as we do. Simple solution.

And the issue (which will come as no surprise to anyone) is abortion.

In truth, and to paraphrase President-elect Obama, I don’t know anyone who is “for” abortion… which is a very different thing than being pro-choice. I am pro-choice.

My dear relative is not.  He exercises his right to free speech and desire to affect change by protesting with some friends at his area’s Planned Parenthood clinic. I respect his protesting in the sense that I firmly believe we ALL have a responsibility to be true to our beliefs, to speak for what we believe is right and against that which offends us.

And yet…

This particular form of protest bothers me deeply, for many, many reasons—the least of which being that I, in poorer days, have used Planned Parenthood many times for things such as contraceptive counseling and free birth control.  On one such visit, I was approached by protesters as I was very privately trying to find out if I was pregnant (as I’d hoped I was). Being approached by someone with a giant photo of an aborted fetus while being shouted at by others who pleaded with me not to abort my presumed-baby was not the kind of good omen I was seeking upon entry to the clinic.

But that’s just me.

I’m sure plenty of young women are cool with facing such a barrage. I’m sure plenty of young women, in the delicate moment of anxiety and after agonizing over whatever decision she makes regarding her body, and her future and the future of a possible family, love to be chastised. They probably love the shame and the guilt and the fear, the sorrow and the mortification. Sadly, I’m not one of them.

Which got me thinking about the form of protest itself.

I get it. The protesters are angry. They consider terminating a pregnancy akin to murder. I understand the depth of passion around this issue.

But I have to ask… standing outside of clinics, shouting at passersby, holding signs… is it working? What is the success rate of your protest? How many women have changed their minds? How effective is this reactive (and oftentimes hostile) form of protest?

Was it any more effective than me standing outside the Capitol building, holding a sign in a pro-choice rally?

How can our mutual desire, this need to affect change, to make a difference, to reduce (eliminate) the number of abortions—how can our mutual desire be proactive? How can we, as a society, stop unintended pregnancies, stop women from getting to this point in the first place?

I mean this in all sincerity: How can the pro-choice and anti-abortion movements work together on this issue? Because I don’t think I’m stupid for asking.

Clearly I have an opinion. Clearly my relative has an opinion. Clearly there has to be common ground somewhere—I mean, I don’t want a young woman wrestling through most of her life with the emotions surrounding an unintended pregnancy, or a pregnancy she views as a mistake, let alone the health and financial consequences of whatever her decision might be, let alone the social implications of that decision.

How do we get to the point where there is no decision making needed?

That’s when I tuned back in to reality, and the California Report. Scott Schaeffer spoke on the upcoming changes to the foster care system. Len Edwards, a Superior Court Judge, was quoted as saying that teens in the foster care system—who are termed out at age 18—are the first to get pregnant, the first to go on welfare, the first to need other forms of public assistance, the first to go to jail, and the first to have their children enter the foster care system.

And the cycle of poverty continues.

I agree with the compassion for the unborn individual. Certainly, shouldn’t we—as a society—also have compassion for the possible mother as well?

And so the light bulb went on: Can THIS be it? Is THIS how both sides of the issue go from reactive, and shouting at our respective winds, to proactive—filled with the desire and stronger ability to affect change?

I think it could be a start, at least.

Perhaps both sides working toward reforms in the foster care system and working directly with those teens is an effective, proactive way to get the end result we all desire: Fewer unintended pregnancies.

The economy is bad.
We’ve been in recession for the last year.
The dollar is at a 20 year low to the Yen and Euro.
Last week 573,000 Americans filed jobless claims.
And then yesterday Cabo Wabo announced it is leaving Fresno.

Happy, happy, joy, joy. No get moving on that holiday shopping, already!!!

Overwhelming isn’t it? It’s hard to even think about spending money when everything is so tight. Especially in a holiday season when buying food and gifts *both* feel like a necessity.

For me, holiday shopping becomes an end run, using that last paycheck before Yule to get gifts of necessity. (“Oh boy, mom! Socks! AND underwear!!”)

And in this bad economy, every retailer out there is trying to woo me—the thrifty shopper who doesn’t really want to part with those hard earned dollars. Still, woo away, I say. And they have. Notice the proliferation of coupons as of late?

Before you hit the stores (perhaps, AGAIN) this season, I offer my cheapskate advice:

1) Check out higher-end stores—especially the clearance racks. “Whaaat??” you say, slapping your cheeks in disbelief. I know. But hear me out. Yes, I am a hardcore “Target for EVERYTHING” person, but lately, the coupons I’ve gotten have pulled me back into some retail outlets I’d previously written off. There are some really, really great deals (that actually beat Target prices) at places like Macys, Gottschalks and some of the boutique stores. Be sure to check necessities like shoes, coats and dresses. With their coupons added, you’re likely to see some pretty steep discounts. (EXAMPLE: I recently bought a last-minute formal holiday party dress [Sheesh! when have I ever needed a formal?] at Gottschalks, originally $120, on sale-on-sale-on-sale on top of that, for less than $40. Thank you, coupons and clearance. Best “c” words ever.)

2) Check those annoying mailers. Don’t just ditch them! If you’re about to order a pizza for the kids or head to the grocery, be sure to check your mailbox first. Several food chains offer two-for-one discounts or larger coupons via mail. It’s worth the look-see, especially knowing how hungry hardcore holiday shopping can make a person. You just might need to stop, mid-shop, and refuel.

3) ALWAYS check the newspaper. Last Sunday’s paper—in fact, EVERY Sunday’s paper—offers coupons in their sales inserts. I found 2  I used that same day—one for 40% off one regular-priced  item at Michaels, and one for 50% off one regular-priced  item at Joann Fabric. “But these stores have their inserts available inside the store,” you might say. But you’d be wrong, little Ms. Know-it-all. THOSE SNEAKY RETAILERS! The inserts in the stores—while they look almost exactly alike—are  different than those that come in your newspaper. (Case in point: both stores had *almost* the same insert, but neither contained the aforementioned 40- and 50% off coupons.)

Additionally, a friend of mine always plans her grocery shopping around the Sunday paper inserts. There are lots and LOTS of coupons in that edition, and she routinely saves upwards of $80 on her grocery needs.

4) Don’t get the paper? Buy one off the rack before hitting the register. There are something like ten BILLION Starbucks in this town. All of them carry The Bee. In addition, there are newspaper racks all over the city. Believe me, saving 20% on an item with a newspaper coupon is worth the 50 cent newsstand price.

As a child I loved visiting Santa. I loved every minute of the anticipation, the excitement, the glory and hope it afforded… until I was actually faced with sitting on some fat, old guy’s lap. Then my intelligence got the better of me—and my voice. And yet somehow, as a parent, I continue to expect the reality of that trip to be completely different for my kids. So why am I surprised when it is always, always the same?

The Chicago Tribune has a great photo gallery that, as a parent, I can fully relate to: Pictures with Santa.

Who here amongst us hasn’t stood in that flipping two-mile line at the mall, our children dressed to the nines, doing their squirrelly and happy dance, overly excited to ask the jolly, corpulent man for everything under the sun? And as time passes, and as they grow tired/hungry/poopy diapered/even-more tired, their sweet, tiny faces start to fade, losing the glow of anticipation and revealing through the cracks the face of the sour demon child within.

By the time the one-hour mark hits, your kids are chanting their favorite mantra: “Is it over? Can we go home now?” Oh, the joy is so thick you can almost taste it!

But alas! Finally the gods have smiled upon you, as the staple-faced teenager dressed as an elf on crack has deemed that it is now your turn to VISIT SANTA! It’s TIME! He’s WAITING! And so are the other 600 kids behind you and your fray, crying, pawing, chasing-each-other-in-line, using the backs of receipts as coloring pages for SOMETHING TO DO– all while they await their blessed turn.

So hurry up, already.

Except… except something is wrong.

Something is terribly wrong.

Apparently, over the course of the ten-bajillion-hour wait in line, your sweet ones have apparently developed one of two types of inertia known as “Lead Foot” (actively aggressive) and/or, “Spaghetti Child” (passively aggressive).  Either affliction is most often accompanied by a terrified, wide-eyed glare. “Lead Foot” is best known for the tell-tale hanging-on-for-dear-life clutch to the parent’s legs, rendering the child’s mobility (and thus the parent’s) impossible. “Spaghetti Child” is marked by the throwing-back-of-the-head-while-wailing motion and the complete, sudden loss of bone structure. While the symptoms of both forms of inertia are markedly different– one set being highly rigid, while the other quite loose and floppy– the presence of both sets are guaranteed when two children are present.

If a third child is present, that child will display “Flight,” notably of the “Fight or Flight” characteristics of human nature.

One grasping your legs, wailing, the other floppy mass on the floor, also wailing, and possibly a third amped and running around, climbing and jumping off the rocks and fences of the staged fake-snow scene, you find yourself at a slight disadvantage. Luckily, nature has given you hormones and the internal strength of Zeus, and you manage to herd the wild monkeys into a ball and drop them unceremoniously into the lap of Evil Santa.

For he must be evil, as the children now cannot stop crying.

Aaannd so the photos go. Check them out.