The Girl Who Cried “Help!”

August 29th, 2010

Four-letter words flow easily off of my tongue, but one four-letter word eludes me. It always sticks in my throat, rendering me a stuttering fool, kind of like Fonzie when he tries to say “I was wr-wr-wron-wrong.” Though not really an obscenity, it always struck me as one. My personal four-letter hurdle is “h-h-hell-help.”

Asking for help has always been the hardest thing for me to do. I never learned how, and now all of my stubborn refusal has bitten me on the ass.

Growing up, my family never asked anyone for help with anything. We always considered ourselves completely self-sufficient. When we went on vacation, we had the Post Office hold our mail rather than inform our neighbors and ask them to pick it up. If we needed to go to the airport, we’d drive and pay for 10 days’ parking rather than ask someone for a ride. If our air conditioner broke, we’d wait a week for a repairman even though our next-door neighbor was a willing a/c technician. In short, no one was allowed into the inner workings of our family, and we had to keep this wall up during every moment of possible vulnerability.

Even within my family, the message was clear that we were not to ask for help. Kids need help with lots of stuff – homework, problems at school, colds and flu. Because education reigned supreme in my father’s mind, it was ok to ask for homework help. But it soon became apparent that new math and my father’s slide-rule engineering degree proved incongruent. Since he went to college, my dad was the go-to-guy for homework, but my mom read books, so I went to her for English help. But when a sixth-grade crossword puzzle produced an impasse (5-letter word for “tired” ending in “y”) that couldn’t be solved until school the next day and affected my grade (“weary”), I stopped turning to Mom for help with English. Then I made the mistake of asking my dad for help with a paper, and I got a big red slash for using the phrase “the reason being” – his signature phrase, his edit. So I was on my own with homework.

When I was nine years old, one of the neighborhood girls, my friend up until the day before, decided she hated me. To this day, I don’t know why. She was popular in the neighborhood and got all of the neighborhood kids to join her in bullying me. So people would bump into me with their sleds, harass me at the bus stop, make fun of my weight, my clothes, the bag I brought to school – they pulled out all of the typical torture stops. The girl was taking piano lessons from my mom at the time. I told my mom about her intimidation campaign. My mom listened, but she said, “I just don’t see it. She’s so nice when she comes for lessons.” Once I interrupted her lesson and she said “Hi Maria,” like she didn’t hate my guts, and that nailed it for my mother. My mom didn’t know why I made up the story, but she didn’t believe it. So that was the last time I asked her for help in social matters.

And then there were colds and boo-boos. When I was little and I got a boo-boo, my mom came through with the healing kiss, time and again. But that was the alpha and omega of her nurturing skills. If I got a cold, or God forbid, nausea, blame always took precedence over recovery. “It’s because you went out with a wet head yesterday!” she’d scold, or, as I stood over the commode, anticipating the imminent upchuck, she’d grill me, “Well, what did you eat? What did you have for breakfast? What about lunch? Didn’t I see you with some ice cream this afternoon? Milk turns to cheese in your stomach, you know!” Thinking about food sped up the process and I could never answer those questions, even when they continued after I’d flushed. And then she’d give me the appropriate medication and I’d spend the rest of the day in bed, awakened for intermittent temperature checks. Nobody sat with me, or stroked my head or read to me. I just laid there, thankful I didn’t have to hear about all the ways I’d brought this upon myself.

So I stopped asking for help. From anyone. The only exception to this rule kicked in when I got laid off or found myself in otherwise dire financial straits. I hated to ask my father for anything, but he’d consistently provided money throughout my life, and I knew he had plenty and would don a miniskirt and vote Democrat before he spent a penny, so I figured it was my due. And he came through. He complained every step of the way about “subsidizing” me, like I was ethanol, but he did write those checks. I used to explain that he was just investing in Maria futures on the commodities market, and he’d reap the benefits when my value skyrocketed. I stopped asking a long time ago, but so far, he’s received zero return on his initial investment.

But I never asked anyone for help with anything else. People sometimes offered, and I sometimes accepted, and I felt ok about it. I always did something to pay them back – pizza and beer for helping me move, gifts for bartending at a party – because I thought it was incredibly generous of them to offer. I never understood that this is what people do.

Mostly I did stuff myself. When my car was out of commission, I didn’t ask for rides, I took cabs. When Rose was born, terrified of making a fatal parenting mistake, we hired a doula. (Hiring is different than asking and doesn’t count as seeking help.) And when I was sick or had a sprained ankle and needed something around the house, I’d get up and get it. Matt would ask me why I didn’t ask him to get it. The truth was that it never occurred to me. I never asked Matt to help me with anything, until I got really bad morning sickness, and then I asked him to carry my laundry down to the washer, but I’d go down and put the load in myself.

Over the course of pregnancy and motherhood, I realized that sometimes I did need help. And sometimes I’d ask, but I’d been the strong, silent type for so long, that I experienced a kind of reverse “Boy Who Cried Wolf” effect. Because they’d never heard me ask for help and I wasn’t very good at doing it, no one took my requests seriously. A couple of weeks ago, while extremely pregnant, I needed help with day-to-day activities but instead of sending a sincere request for help, I posted it on Facebook followed by a punchline. So no one responded, except to say they liked the joke.

So when I had the first preeclampsia scare; when the doctors said to stay in bed and count kicks; I did, but then I got up and had dinner and cleared the table. And when it happened again this past week, I spent all day in bed with a headache, nausea, cramps and sciatica while my in-laws sat in the living room wondering why I was being so “bitchy.” Matt even said they’d talk about me when they got home. I was too sick to care, and besides, it’s inevitable they talk about Matt’s Yankee wife sometime. (“Well she IS from New York, bless her heart. What do y’all expect? Manners and sweet tea?”) When the sick feeling wouldn’t go away by evening, I called the doctor and she sent us to the hospital for monitoring. It was kind of nice. They told me I was having contractions so that made me feel a little more legitimate, and it was the first time Matt and I were alone all week. After a few hours, they said I was ok and let us go home. Now, I thought, now they’ll finally let me lie down.

But the next day it was the same thing. Everyone expected me to take care of them, and when I went to lie down, they’d let Rose come in and jump on the bed, and I’d have to protect myself from her belly flops. (Her flops, my belly.) I had a doctor appointment that afternoon, but that doctor was delivering a baby at the hospital so they approached me in the waiting room and told me to go to Labor and Delivery. Matt, who’d taken Rose to the dentist, picked me up, and again, we headed to the hospital. Rose couldn’t believe her luck – she’d never been allowed to accompany us there before. When we got there, they hooked me up to monitors again and we waited and waited. While I fought back tears from my blinding headache, Matt complained about the cost of this visit, how long we’d waited, and then the pain from a head butt Rose had inflicted.

The doctor finally showed up and again, I was ok. She told me to take it easy. I guess this was finally enough for Matt. He cared for his family for the next two days and then drove them to the airport when I asked him to take the ride in my place. We got a babysitter for Rose and I rested. I saw my doctor that day and she thought it was overwork, not preeclampsia, that put me in the hospital. And then she suggested bed rest, if it was feasible. I said I’d find a way. We got childcare for Rose for the rest of the week, and I’ve been resting. I’m typically only able to maintain about 30 minutes of verticality before I must lie down again. I’m not sure if I was this tired before and I just pushed myself or if it’s a cumulative exhaustion, but I must say I’m enjoying it. And my family is finally taking my requests for help seriously.

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Book Excerpt: The Stick Game

August 21st, 2010

That’s it! The gold glow rising from the green depths – my quarry. I hold my nose and jump in. I hear two more splashes behind me, but I’m the first one down. Where is it? All I can see is green. Oh, wait, there it is! I reach out, feel its smooth wood. Got it! Clutching it like the Olympic torch, my fist breaks the surface before I do, but everyone sees. I got the stick!

I swim around to the ladder, climb up on the dock, dripping on the turf rug, and we start again. This time I get to take it down. Hmm, dive or pin drop? Pin drops take you deeper. Standing at the edge of the dock, facing the beach, I hold the stick in one hand, plaster my hands to my thighs for optimum aquadynamics, and drop, pointing my toes straight down. I feel the bubbles around me and when the water feels coldest, I let go. I float up and hang on the dock, looking up at the row of expectant faces. I pull myself to the ladder and climb up. It’s my turn to watch.

Donna’s whole body twitches. She spots it, dives; a few more kids jump after her, and she’s got it. Donna’s the best swimmer in our lake. She always beat me when we raced on Family Day, and I always admired how strong and swift she was in the water. The lake goes right up to her backyard, so she swims all the time, without a lifeguard. We live across the street from the lake. My mom always tells my dad we should have gotten a house on the lake, and he says “Oh, Viki, please, you know how expensive that would be?” and waves her away.

Everyone goes to the beach anyway. We walk down the road in our flip-flops, rolling my big inner tube in front of us, past Donna’s house, past Karen’s, past the people who live next to the beach but never go. We see the whole neighborhood there, grownups and all. Donna and her sisters, Cynthia, Rob, Alison, Dan. Cathi and I get there and we wade to our knees and then jump into the cold. But it’s not cold for long, and with the sun warming our faces, it always feels good to be in the water. When my cousins visit and we take them down here, they blow air out their noses and say the lake smells. It does. It smells like lake. Green, cool, and wet. We like it.

And then we swim out to the dock and play The Stick Game. We use an ice cream stick or an Italian Ice spoon, someone takes it down, and we go after it. Whoever gets it takes it down next. We play all day, or until we hear the bells.

“Jing Jing! Jing Jing!” Everyone runs for the edge, the front of the dock dips almost to the water but then everyone dives in and heads toward the beach. White wakes can’t catch up with us as we race for shore. We ransack our pockets or beg our parents and run up the ramp to wait outside the white truck on the sizzling pavement. We’re pretty cool from swimming but sometimes someone will order a Bomb Pop, Fun Dip, Bottle Caps, a Snow Cone and a Chocolate Éclair and the water under our feet will get hot, burn off and then we all jump from foot to foot, waiting for our Toasted Almond or Strawberry Shortcake and candy.

One by one, we walk down the paved sandy ramp, hands clutching bundles of ice cream and candy, we sit on our towels to eat. No one swims while the ice cream man visits or for a half hour after, because we’ll get cramps and drown. That’s when the moms put their babies in the water, in front of the yellow rope with the blue and white floats. Sometimes the grownups swim then. My dad swims across the lake and back. But we all sit on the beach, in twos and threes, licking orange push ups until we see that plastic Fred Flintstone or Yogi Bear or bite the chocolate off Nutty Buddies as we drip dry.

When our ice cream’s gone, we open our candy. Candy doesn’t count toward our half hour out of the water, so we eat while we wait. I have a purple ring pop and Cathi’s got giant Sweet tarts – the chewy kind. Chews

“What days are you going to the fair?”

“I think Thursday and Saturday. My dad wants to go to the movies on Friday.”

“We’re going Saturday too. Maybe you can come with us.”

“I’ll ask.”

At the fair, it’ll be me and Cathi or me and Alison, Rob will walk around with his friends, Cynthia with the stuck-up pretty girls, Donna and Corinne with their sisters. Same thing at school, except for Donna and Corinne. They’re in different grades, so they split up at school.

Then our half hour’s over. One by one, two by two, we throw our trash in the can and head straight for the water. When we get to the dock, Rob says he had a cherry Italian Ice, so we’ve got a new stick, stained pink. Spoons are the best sticks — fat and easiest to see. It’s his stick, so he dives off the dock and takes it down.

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Hitting the “Pause” Button

August 17th, 2010

And I could have done so many things, baby
If I could only stop my mind from wondrin’ what
I left behind and from worrying ’bout this wasted time

“Wasted Time” — Don Henley and Glenn Frey

Ah, if I could only stop my mind.

I know I’m not the only one who’s wished to stop my mind. Thinking, worrying, fretting – it’s so natural yet so counterproductive.

Almost since conception, this pregnancy’s necessitated a daily nap, just to survive the day. This nap must coincide with Rose’s afternoon nap, just after the babysitter drops her off. Rose typically sleeps for two hours. I’m grateful for her nap for many reasons, but mostly because it takes me up to an hour and a half to fall asleep, if at all. So I need two hours to take a half-hour nap. I always thought it was funny when magazines urged working people to “close the door to your office and take a ‘power nap’ for 20 minutes.” That would be impossible for me, and further, they tout this strategy as a stress buster. I find it hard to believe that someone who’s that stressed out could fall asleep in 20 minutes. But boy, more power to ‘em.

I’ve always wanted to have narcolepsy, like my dad. The idea of sleeping anytime, anywhere sounds so appealing to me. Yeah, it’s a little inconvenient to fall asleep at the dinner table, but think of all those z’s they get! Imagine sleeping on planes, trains and automobiles! Imagine falling asleep without any effort!

Sleep is not my lot in life. I’m still learning how to do it. A friend of mine told me how she’d stroked her babies’ ears as they dozed off. Her grown children still stroke their ears as they fall asleep. “You’ve got to give them something,” she said, “Otherwise, how will they learn to sleep?”

My parents didn’t know that trick, but I made it a top priority when Rose was a baby. I stroked her bangs and forehead, a gentle physical suggestion to close her eyes. It worked. We always know she’s ready to sleep when she starts playing with her hair.

But I had to learn the hard way. And needing a daily nap has taught me a lot. Sometimes it’s harder to stop my mind during the day than at night, when exhaustion can overrule an active mind. So right before my nap, I execute a brain dump. I try to capture every item swirling through my brain and neatly organize it on my smart phone or computer. Sometimes I have a to do list, a shopping list and a story idea in my head, and maybe something to tell my husband, so I create appointments and tasks so I’ll have reminders for the to do, record the shopping list separately, and add the story idea to another list. Then I’ll email my husband with the question or nag, send it, and I’m much more relaxed. But sometimes the juices flow too forcefully to stop there, so I always fall asleep with a familiar, comforting, TV show playing. Since they stopped running “The Golden Girls” during naptime, I’ve been using my “Northern Exposure” DVDs in the afternoon and “Cheers” at night. For some, the TV is too much stimulation, but for me, the television gives me something mindless and relaxing to focus on and helps to get me out of my head. If that doesn’t work, I turn on the fan for the white noise. And I’ve made many a last-ditch effort work by telling myself I would just lie there and whatever happened, happened.

But it’s been a bit more difficult since I’ve become a full-time writer. When I had a day job, I could mindlessly complete it, sign off and use all of the methods I mentioned to fall asleep. But once I focused solely on my business, I had a lot more to think about. What’s more, I care about my business much more than was necessary with my day job.

Rose is going through this TV addiction phase. God, I hope it’s a phase. She’s always watched TV while waiting for the babysitter, because I had to work. She might watch too much TV for her age, but when she first recited the alphabet to us at 18 months, Matt asked where she’d learned it. Rose said “From Elmo.” Now she’s learning to recognize letters from “Super Why.” Enough defending my parenting. I brought it up because sometimes “Sid the Science Kid” is so engrossing that she’ll refuse to get dressed in the morning. So I learned to put the TV on “pause,” explain to her that she won’t miss anything, and we can go get dressed. And she’s cool with that.

So now when I need to nap I take a cue from Rose’s TV strategy. If business ideas and “to dos” and whatnot won’t shut off as I’m lying down, I tell myself that it’s the middle of the day, and nothing will be lost. Everything is just on “pause.” I can choose to work on it later, or not. But I won’t forget it and I do not need to think about it now.

“Pause” works for other things too. My best friend’s in the midst of a family crisis right now. But she’s at a turning point in her life and wants to decide which way to go. Thing is, she’s got enough swirling around her head without worrying about where to go from here. So I told her to hit the “pause” button. She must focus on the crisis at hand, and when the stress abates, she’ll be able to think about her own big picture.

But as I give advice, I realize that I must take it as well. I need to hit the “pause” button every once in a while. Yesterday I’d planned on not working and doing something fun. It was the day after we threw a big party and I knew I’d be exhausted. But I had work to do, so I wound up working anyway. I laid down at 12:00, thinking I’d shower and pick up Rose at 12:30. I opened my eyes at 1:08. Groggy, I picked Rose up and we came home and, after some resistance, she napped so I could sleep again. We slept for four and a half hours yesterday. When I awoke, I was still concerned about completing this blog and the rest of my work, but I realized I had just needed the pause.

This morning I went back to work and completed my big project, then set out to write this post. I realized that without yesterday’s pause, I’d have had no conclusion. Now I do. So I must take those necessary pauses seriously, especially as I get closer and closer to giving birth. As the big day nears, my energy’s waning but my ambition’s not. I keep trying to convince myself that I’ll go back to work right away, because there are so many things I need to do, but I may just have to put everything on pause for a little while, and if I do, I have to accept that that’s ok too.

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Birthday Break

August 15th, 2010

Today is my birthday, and we hosted a big party. I spent all day working on the party. I had intended to finish the post I started for today, but failed. I apologize. But I’d really like to share the things that this year brought me with all of you. I’ve mentioned gratitude lists in this space and this is my birthday list for this year. I will post a full entry tomorrow. Thanks for understanding. This year, I’m most grateful:

For this pregnancy. Matt was right. We stopped trying and it happened. Thank you, God and very funny.

For my first birthday call ever from the woman who gave birth to me.

For a great experience at my first real conference and the three chances I’ll get at selling a book this year.

For the strange serendipity of losing my day job, which facilitated the pursuit of my dream job, 16 years late but better than never.

To Matt and Eric for building the fence, so I no longer stress out when Rose plays in the backyard.

And finally, to all the people who read this blog. I’m picking up readers every month and I’m no marketing genius, so that’s all thanks to you. I can’t express how much it means to know you’re out there and you never fail to motivate me. Thanks so much, everyone!

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If I Only Had the Stones

August 8th, 2010

First, let me apologize to my male readers. I had started another topic, then I got angry at my husband and wrote this to soothe myself. In it, I make some generalizations about your gender that may not apply to everyone, but certainly seem to describe the vast majority. I invite you to post any and all angry comments and I will attempt to respond, but, in my defense, let me just say that in my advanced gestational state, without the aid of alcohol, mood stabilizers or daily doses of “The Golden Girls,” I have very few comforts available to me and writing is the most effective. Screaming works too, but I don’t want to explain that to the cops again. In any case, the following is the fruit of my fury.

I’m getting a sex change. Nothing physical — I just want to adopt a masculine attitude. I’m picturing one of those bad sci-fi scenes where two subjects sit in giant inverted test tubes wearing silver yarmulkes, connected by lots of wiring. Mad scientist pulls the big switch, and I start acting like a guy.

Six years of relationship and three years of marriage have taught me a lot about men. No matter where I fall on the learning curve, the fact that men rule the world continues to baffle me. The only explanation I can surmise is that women have the babies, and pregnancy floored us long enough over the millennia for the men to initiate a hostile takeover.

One conclusion I’ve been able to draw is that men’s rise to the top was not about competence. It was about attitude. For example, a man can miss the deadline for garbage pickup three weeks in a row, then, the fourth week, when he manages to haul the miniature landfill out to the curb as the truck rolls toward his driveway, pat himself on the back saying, “Great! I made it just in time!” Whereas a woman who’s missed one pickup will say, “Dammit, I can’t believe I missed it! Tuesday’s always been garbage day. What the hell is wrong with me?”

The day before yesterday, I took my two-and-a-half-year-old daughter to Walmart. I had planned to take her to a kids’ coffee shop beforehand, so I could work and she could play, but when we got there, the place was closed. I’d promised her play, so I knew she wouldn’t adapt to a change in plans very well, but Walmart was a block away and the nearest play place was miles in the other direction, so I told her we’d play later but we had to shop first. “Kidz ‘n’ Coffee!! Kidz ‘n’ Coffee!!” she whined, as I reiterated that it was closed and there’s nothing I can do to change that. In retrospect, to make life easier on myself I should have bitten the bullet, taken her to play and then backtracked and shopped later, but practicality is one of my strongest drivers, and the thought of all that wasted schlepping drove me directly to Walmart.

We got to the store’s door and Rose pointed to the stand-up carts. “I want that one! I want that car cart!” I told her no. “Why?” she asked.

“Because last time you couldn’t handle it and I had to put you inside the cart. You’re just not grown up enough for that cart.”

“YES I AAAAM!” I dragged her into the store, strapped her in a regular cart as she continued her protest and started up the aisle. I grabbed a bag of potato chips. “I want those chips!” she whined, pointing to another bag.

“Honey, Mommy’s buying these chips to try them. We’ll get those chips at Costco next week.” We headed to the kids’ department for some sippy cups.

“DORA!” she cried as we passed a Dora the Explorer backpack. “DORA!” she cried as we passed a Dora the Explorer T-Shirt. “DORA!” she cried as we passed the Dora the Explorer pajamas. “Wouldn’t it be sweet if I could sleep in Dora jammies?”

“Honey, Grandma’s coming to visit soon and you know how she likes to buy you things. Let’s leave some stuff in the store so she can buy them when she comes. Besides, we’re here to get you more sippy cups.”

“I want Vana’s cuppies!” she said, pointing at a pink cup she’d seen her friend use.

“You have two of those at home, and we came for more straw cups.”

“I want princess cuppies!” she cried. I grabbed the straw cups and headed up the shoe aisle. “I want those! I want those! I want those!” she pointed, as we made our way up the aisle.

“Ok, let’s pick one and we’ll buy it,” I said, having intended to buy shoes in the first place. “Do you like these, these or these?”

“The purple ones!” she yelled.

“Ok. Mommy will buy them.” She began to undo her sandals.

“I want to wear them!” Sigh. Of course she did.

“Ok, Honey, you can wear them in the store, but when we check out, you have to take them off so we can pay for them.”

“Put them on!!” From shoes, we headed to toys. (How stupid am I?) But we needed a bubble machine for next week’s party and that’s where we’d find it. Only we didn’t. I wheeled her all around the toy department – always a minefield of desire – and, frustrated at the absence of bubble machines, lost patience with the constant “I wants.” I took a desperate stab.

“Ok, Honey, you know what? Grandma’s going to want to buy this stuff for you when she comes, so let’s make a list for her. Everything you see that you want, we’ll put on the list and this way when Grandma comes, she’ll know what to buy you.”

“Ok, Mommy.” Hallelujah. How can people not believe in God?

So that’s what we did. She named stuff, I’d say, “It’s on the list,” and she’d say “Ok.”

Finally we got to the grocery aisles, the real reason we were there. Since nothing much caught her eye, she started whining and complaining just to keep herself occupied. She gets this from her dad. I offered her a snack. As I reached for her goldfish, my body jerked as sharp pains wracked my belly, top to bottom. Contractions. At Walmart. With an unruly child. Father, why have you forsaken me?

I’m eight months along, so I noted that I still couldn’t breathe, which meant the baby hadn’t dropped, and though they doubled me over, the contractions weren’t that strong, so I concluded that this was not labor. I still needed groceries, so I continued shopping. And Rose continued whining. Digging for snacks, I found the earplugs I’d packed in her bag for loud parties. “Rose, I asked you to be quiet and you won’t, so I’m going to put these in my ears until you can quiet down.”

“Noooo! No earpwugs!”

“Sorry, Sweetie. I have to, but hey, if you can stay quiet and talk in whispers for say, a count of 30, I’ll take them out. One, two…”

She made it to 36, and I removed the plugs. Ouch! In between contractions, I managed to pick up the groceries and check out. We’d planned to play and I’d promised Chuck E. Cheese if she’d behaved, but she hadn’t, Mr. Cheese was off the table. But we needed lunch and she needed to play, so amidst continuous contractions I told her we’d go to the McDonald’s with the Playplace. But I was so distraught by that time that we had to swing by the gourmet donut shop and pick up a dozen leavened mood elevators. Then we went to McDonald’s and played as planned.

I got to sit at the table, eat and send emails with my phone. By the time we left McDonald’s, the contractions subsided but I’d developed a headache. We headed home as I thought about the warnings I’d received at my last doctor visit. They said I should call if I got a headache and noticed a slowdown in fetal movement. Hmm, baby’d been quiet for about a half hour. That’s not unusual but he’s usually active after I eat. Hmm. I guess I should call.

By the time we got home and I got the cold stuff put away, I thought I would collapse. I put Rose to bed and picked up the phone. The doctor’s assistant said to lie down, drink lots of cold water, take Tylenol for the headache, and count fetal movements. We were shooting for 10 movements within an hour. If I didn’t feel 10 movements, I was to go to the hospital. So I lay down and did what she said, as much as I could, but Rose refused to nap in the other room. She kept calling me and I kept telling her I had to lie down, so she had to stay in her room. I called Matt, explained my condition, and told him to come home. “I can get a bus in an hour and a half,” he said.

“Well, if I have to go to the hospital it’ll be within the next half hour.”

“So you want me to take a cab?” Math major. “Ok. I’ll get a cab.”

Baby Boy Fisher came through with 14 kicks in a half hour. Relieved, I called the doctor. They said good, but continue to rest. Thanks to his cab driver’s religious objection to the express lanes, Matt finally got home about an hour after I’d called. He kept Rose occupied long enough for me to cry myself to sleep, and an hour later, I awoke feeling much better.

Today, Matt took Rose to the gym and on errands so that I could have some writing time. I sent him to Costco specifically to pick up the coupon items I couldn’t get last trip. I’d been talking about this errand since Friday, repeatedly stressing that the coupons expired today, so I needed it done this weekend. I’d seen some stuff there that I thought he’d want to see, so I thought he could take a look and pick up my items at the same time.

This morning, he called from Home Depot – before Costco. “I got everything and I can’t think of anything else we need. Was there anything else?”

“No, Honey, I emailed everything I wanted you to check. It’s on your Blackberry.”

An hour later, he called again. “We just got to Costco. (It’s across the parking lot.) Rose was being so bad, I forgot the flyer in the car. What did you want?”

“The coupon stuff. You can’t get the discounts without the coupons.”

“Well, she’s being such a pain I don’t think we can get anything.”

“Then come home.” I hung up. Incompetent piece of shit.

Two days ago, I somehow managed an unruly child, checked for every item on our list, and completed the grocery run while suffering uterine contractions and somehow, my husband was able to ferry the same unruly child around Home Depot for an hour after he got his three items, but unable to grab a book of coupons – the major reason for the trip – as he stopped by the car before Costco. By then, he couldn’t handle our unruly child. So he called me for salvation. When I couldn’t produce that miracle, he gave up. Not a thought toward disappointing his extremely pregnant wife. No regrets at all. And when he got home, he expected me to sympathize with his parental strife as I embraced him with permanently open arms.

This is why I want to be a man. If I was a man, I wouldn’t feel obligated to meet my responsibilities. I wouldn’t have to pull my weight. If I was a man, I could have given up on Walmart with the first “I want!” and gone home to bed, groaning and rubbing my tummy. We wouldn’t have groceries, and I likely wouldn’t have had a preeclampsia scare, but most importantly, I would not have inconvenienced myself in the slightest and I wouldn’t have any regrets.

If I was a man, I could go out into the world with an encyclopedic knowledge of sports history and statistics, a complete lack of time management skills, no sense of responsibility beyond the maintenance of my physical comfort, and an inflated sense of accomplishment whenever I managed to complete a menial task. And I would claim my inexplicable place as a member of the dominant gender. I could quit multitasking, quit caring, live according to my own schedule and expect my wife to take care of everything else. Facial hair would no longer be an issue. I would never suffer the indignities of gestational incontinence, menstruation, or queen-sized pantyhose.

Nor would I be allowed to cry during movies, discuss my feelings, giggle or drink Cosmos in public. I wouldn’t be able to comfort my kids like only a mom can, request accurate directions or match my own clothes. But at this point, I no longer give a shit about that stuff. Wow. It’s happening. I just got the urge to adust myself.

Epilogue

Matt spent the rest of the day busting his ass to assemble Rose’s big-girl bed; complete an accounting test riddled with technical glitches; install the final fence gate and complete a rate analysis for the 19 offices on his work docket. To his credit, he completed the work, test and bed, set the posts and built the gate and disassembled Rose’s crib and moved it to the baby’s room. And he called poison control when Rose ate a two-day-old discarded chicken McNugget she’d found in an old happy meal box. If you’re wondering, poison control said it probably wouldn’t hurt her, but we’d know if it forced itself out of either end. All of this work following the Costco incident functioned as his saving grace. If he’d spent the rest of the day watching football, we still wouldn’t be speaking, but right now I’m going to kiss him goodnight.

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Be Careful What You Wish For

August 1st, 2010

Four months ago, every day I felt the same: nauseated, bored and angry. I hated my job, my life and the karma that brought me the morning sickness. I blamed everything on the physical suffering. If only I felt better, maybe I’d feel better. I’d stop hating my job and if I didn’t have to spend every waking moment managing morning sickness, I’d have some time to do things I liked, instead of barely enough time for the bare necessities.

The morning sickness abated just in time for our Hawaiian cruise. For a few months, anticipating that trip was the only thing that kept me going. Twelve luxurious days on a boat with free babysitting, twice daily maid service and ubiquitous food, procured and prepared without my participation. The trip was our first Hawaiian adventure and we loved it. Hawaii had so many sources to soothe our tropical souls.

Our ship island-hopped for a week, then headed out to sea for a five-day Pacific crossing. I’ve cruised several times and I used to resent days at sea. I felt like they were a cruise line conspiracy to force me to spend money on the boat. This time was different. I had a view of the ocean, free babysitting, no responsibilities and nothing to do. What more could a writer want? For five glorious, relaxing days, I got it. Matt likes to gamble and doesn’t get much alone time, so he gave me the mornings to write while he played the slots or wandered the ship. We took family naps in the afternoons, and then we spent the evenings together. I wanted to stay aboard forever, but everything comes to an end.

Back home, work was easier to handle without constant headaches and nausea. Preschool fell smack in the middle of work on Wednesdays so that became my day off. I’d heard of people taking Wednesdays voluntarily – it breaks up the week, they raved – but to me, they were just stays of execution until Thursday morning.

One Wednesday after preschool, Rose and I headed two exits up to the mall. She was eating and gagged. I caught her spasms in the mirror. “ROSE, are you ok?” no answer. Yanked the wheel toward the shoulder. Rose coughed. “I’m ok, Mommy!” I exhaled, continued on our way. Off the exit, we waited at a light to turn right. Pressured from behind, I turned, and a minivan flew out from behind traffic, just missing us. I cut over and turned into the parking lot as the sobs crushed my lungs. I couldn’t stop. “I can’t do this anymore,” I repeated, “I can’t do this.”

“I will hug you!” Rose said over and over, “I will hug you! Let me out!”

“I will, Honey. Just let Mommy finish crying.”

“I will hug you, Mommy!”

After about 20 minutes, I’d calmed down enough to call my husband. I told him what happened. He said, “Well, you didn’t get hit and Rose is ok, that’s what’s important.”

“Uh huh,” I sniffed. But that wasn’t it. It was everything. Nothing in my life made me happy. I couldn’t begin to explain that over the phone, so we hung up and Rose and I went shopping.

After naps that afternoon, I constructed a chart I called “Life Self-Coach.” It included “Good Things, Options, Things to Change, Options, Comments/Obstacles.” Carefully I entered the things I liked about my life: Matt, Rose, the blog, freelance magazine work, friends. Under “Options” for that column, I added actions that would enhance the good things and boost enjoyment. Under “Things to Change” I entered, “Hate Job, No productive time, Lonely. I brainstormed changes I could make in the options column and added any issues or obstacles hindering those changes to the last column. I looked over the finished chart and I was no longer depressed and powerless. I had a plan.

My plan included making regular dates with friends, researching job options, scheduling writing time and delegating more household duties. So I worked on those things. I attempted to set up a regular gym day with one friend and began asking the guys to do specific things to help around the house. Instead of catching up on laundry or prepping food when I had a few minutes, I fired up the computer and wrote. And things got better. Matt and I discussed making freelancing my full-time job.

But a funny thing happened on the way to my new life. A couple of funny things. First, I got laid off with a month’s notice. After six years – the longest I’d ever lasted at a job – the news shocked me, but as I thought about it, I started to smile. Now was my chance to become a full-time freelancer – a goal I’d set 16 years before. The plan we’d discussed was to build the business until next year, when we’d saved enough and felt comfortable with the income I’d generate. I’d worried that with the baby coming, I wouldn’t have time to build enough business to keep me going, once again delaying the dream. Now I’d have the time. We’d already done the financial planning, so this just meant we instituted the plan sooner.

A week later, I got a letter from the adoption agency that had placed me with my parents. They had a “possible match” with my birth family. I called, and they said my birth mother wanted to contact me. Was the desire mutual? Absolutely, I said; I’d thought about this my whole life. We put the wheels in motion. A week later we’d exchanged information and she’d sent me an email. She said she’d never stopped thinking about me, not for one day, and she was so happy to finally connect. Finding me was a blessing and she couldn’t wait to meet and hug me. My best friend, also adopted, called it the best introduction an adopted kid could hope for. Reading it, my whole body warmed and tears flowed for joy, relief and release.

My birth mother and I exchanged emails and phone calls. She read my blog. She said all of the parental things I’d always longed to hear. She’s proud of me. She loves me. She can’t wait to hold me. I always envied my friends’ adult relationships with their parents. They called and visited voluntarily. They enjoyed each other’s company. They supported each other. I never had that. But I’m happy to say that now this 41-year-old kid is getting it.

Three months after a bout of sick, bored and angry, I was about to realize my dream and the hole I’d always had in my life was starting to fill. And all I did was make a plan. I didn’t even implement the big stuff. Those things just came to me. But I did choose the direction and start the momentum, and I can’t discount that. I’ve always heard that God helps those who help themselves. I guess I helped myself overcome the boredom and anger, and worked for positive changes. And I have to believe that God did the rest. And I’m grateful enough to quell the urge to wonder when the bad stuff will come back.

Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.

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Pregnancy: It’s Not Pretty (Part Two)

July 25th, 2010

This is the second segment of “Pregnancy: It’s Not Pretty.” This describes my first pregnancy, but it still applies. I am now eight months along with Baby Boy Fisher. I’ll save the last segment, “Labor Day,” for BBF’s arrival.

Five Months and Beyond

Day 156 — Washington, D.C.: On my way to Blimpie’s, I had a coughing fit and peed all over myself and the 7th street sidewalk. Fortunately, Bed, Bath and Beyond has public toilets. You haven’t experienced a pee emergency until you run down the escalator with your knees clamped shut.
Day 170: I’m finally starting to look pregnant. Before I just looked like a fatter version of me wearing maternity clothes. Since they’re in style now (whose brainchild was that?) nobody dared ask. I’ve been fat before, but I am now legitimately fat, and people should start treating me better than a fattie, right?
Day 187: Yep, people are opening doors for me. Usually it’s the door to the ladies’ room, but I’ll take what I can get.
Day 197: I can really see my belly. Fortunately, now so can the gym folks when I nap on the yoga mats. Since I’m a government worker, I doubt anybody thought anything of my daytime slumber.
Day 210: I can’t believe there’s no orange juice! How could they not have orange juice? Oh, God, I need a tissue!
Day 211: “Could you please just do the dishes tonight? We’re out of forks and I need the colander and I can’t, I just can’t function like this. No I CAN’T stop crying until you do the dishes. I’m going upstairs! Please just do the dishes!”
Day 214: Traffic. Nooooo! How…long…will…we…wait? I can’t sit here for two hours. No. “I’m sorry, Honey, I know it’s not your fault but I can’t stop crying. OH, GOD I’M SORRY I’M UPSETTING YOU! I know you can’t help it. NO, NOW YOU’RE MAD AT ME! HAND ME A TISSUE!”
Day 216: If only I could drink. How are you supposed to ride the hormones out without a margarita or two?
Day 218: “Zoloft? Why? But I feel better when I cry. It’s only been every day for two weeks.”
Day 225: Who would have thought peeing wouldn’t feel good? It’s like one teaspoon every 10 minutes and no relief from the urge.
Day 230: Child, my belly is not your personal punching bag. OW! Any minute I expect an alien singing “Hello My Baby” to bust out of my protruding belly button. I really could use some reassurance that it really is a human inside me, but they apparently don’t do sonograms after the 28th week unless there’s a problem.
Day 235: She must be enormous because my belly is throwing my ample ass off balance. I would really like a hydraulic jack installed in my ass so I can get off the couch. I asked my husband for one of those marine mammal slings hanging over our bed so I can turn over. He said if he installs something to dangle over the bed, it’d better be a sex swing. Come to think of it, that might actually help. Right now sex is like a carnival game — you know where you point your water gun at the hole and you win a prize if you hit it?
Day 236: I can’t wait to get this kid out of me. I will endure any pain to purge the alien inside of me. Bring it on!
Day 252: 37 weeks. She’s full-term. Any day now. I can feel it.
Day 256: What part of any day now do you not understand, kid? I tried sex, exercise, spicy food, and red raspberry leaf tea. It’s almost Thanksgiving and we’ve got a tight deadline if you don’t want Christmabirthday presents.

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Annoyance Avoidance: I Couldn’t be Bothered

July 18th, 2010

Peter Gibbons: The thing is, Bob, it’s not that I’m lazy, it’s that I just don’t care.
Bob Porter: Don’t… don’t care?
Peter Gibbons: It’s a problem of motivation, all right? Now if I work my ass off and Initech ships a few extra units, I don’t see another dime, so where’s the motivation? And here’s something else, Bob: I have eight different bosses right now.
Bob Slydell: I beg your pardon?
Peter Gibbons: Eight bosses.
Bob Slydell: Eight?
Peter Gibbons: Eight, Bob. So that means that when I make a mistake, I have eight different people coming by to tell me about it. That’s my only real motivation is not to be hassled, that and the fear of losing my job. But you know, Bob, that will only make someone work just hard enough not to get fired.
Office Space, Written by Mike Judge

What’s my motivation? For most domestic tasks, my motivation matches the Peter Gibbons philosophy. There’s so much I do just to avoid being hassled. Sometimes it’s just small things. For example, when I went to bed last night I heaved my marine mammalian maternal mass all the way over to the far side of our king-sized bed so that I could even out the blanket for Matt. He comes to bed late and if he doesn’t get covers, I hear a litany of complaints in the morning. Truthfully, if the covers favor my side, it’s rare that I’m actually hoarding them. Usually this phenomenon is a result of the covers’ initial placement – a condition that could be remedied by either one of us at any time of day. It’s also because I tuck my covers in at the bottom and Matt leaves his loose. In my opinion, if Matt’s going to complain about it, then he should fix it. But that task usually falls to me, and I do it for the sake of simple annoyance avoidance.

I’m not the only one. During a recent informal survey at a moms’ meeting, I asked for examples of annoyance avoidance and everyone offered up a contribution. And I think it’s safe to say that women, and maybe men, have been practicing annoyance avoidance for hundreds, if not thousands, of years.

I know the practice goes back at least a generation. My mom had a great refrain that I used to hate: “I couldn’t be bothered.” To me, it indicated defeat, and it reinforced my mother’s status as a tragic figure. But after three and a half years of marriage and two and a half years of motherhood, I understand exactly what she meant. Further, I realize it’s just a fact of life. “I couldn’t be bothered” has to motivate at least half of the things wives and mothers do on a daily basis.

My husband has motivated so much annoyance avoidance that he should appear on the motivational poster. Sometimes the man complains so much that “I Used to Love Her, but I Had to Kill Her” starts to play in my head. The idea of burying him in the backyard has carried me through many a day. But, as the song laments, it’s very likely that I would still hear him complain.

I love Matt very much, and his countless good qualities far outweigh the bad or I wouldn’t be with him, but driving your partner crazy is an inevitable part of marriage. Here’s a perfect example. I would love to attempt a social life. I’ve heard that many moms can and do socialize with other moms and sometimes even regular people. In fact, I can prove it because I have a friend who goes out with the girls two or three times a week. Let me say that again. Two or three times a week. She’s raising a son who’s seven months younger than Rose but get this: Her husband facilitates her social life by offering regular babysitting services. Her kid’s quite a handful and I don’t begrudge her the breaks, but if I tried to go out even once a week, here’s what would happen:

“Honey, I’d like to go out Thursday night. The moms are getting together to learn how to put out house fires.”

“Thursday?” grave look, deep inhale, long exhale. “Let me check my calendar.” Pulls out Blackberry. “Well, I have a webex with Tokyo at 10 p.m. I can’t do that with her running around.”

“She goes to bed at 8:30.”

“She does for you, but if you’re out, she won’t go to bed until you get home.”

“I should be home by nine.”

Big sigh. Serious look. “Ok. (sigh) I guess I can reschedule.”

“Forget it. I don’t have to go. They offer it every five years anyway,” I’d concede. My husband should be an attitude consultant for Bridezillas.

He’s not the only motivator I’ve got. Rose — kids in general – are experts at motivating annoyance avoidance. Rose was supposed to quit using her pacifier months ago. She did really well for a while. We were able to limit use to bedtime only. But somehow we backslid and now she’s constantly seeking her paci. Her doctor and her dentist have repeatedly lectured me on this subject, and I want to get rid of the paci. I really do. But when I know it’ll shut her up or better, put her to sleep, I’ll tear the house apart to get to that little latex sucker, just to avoid her whiny complaints.

Maybe annoyance avoidance implies defeat, but it’s better than the alternative. My husband and daughter exhibit a kind of learned helplessness that absolutely baffles me. It’s unfathomable because they act like they’d rather remain unhappy and complain than correct an easily correctable situation. I guess what they say is true: happiness is a choice.

Matt exhibits this behavior in the car. He’ll be on the highway behind a car that’s slow, dangerous, moronic, or otherwise frustrating. “C’mon, jackass,” he’ll say. A few seconds later: “JESUS!” During this process, I will look around us and I must say, 90 percent of the time, we’re surrounded by open lanes. All we have to do is change lanes and pass or avoid the offending vehicle. Yet Matt remains focused on the bitching at hand, uttering a complaint roughly every 12 seconds. By the time I lose my patience and say, “God Honey! Just freakin’ change lanes already!” He’ll say, “I can’t. I’m boxed in here.” Sure enough, there are now cars around us but they do not necessarily impede our escape. If I was driving, I could easily change lanes. But he chooses not to.

Rose must get it from him. She will bang her head against the wall – literally – then cry and complain that it hurts. When we say, “Stop banging your head and it won’t hurt anymore,” she does it again. I know she’s only two, but she understands annoyance avoidance enough to tell everyone that she doesn’t like toys that talk, so what gives?

I grew up surrounded by complainers. My Yaya was one of those people who was never happy unless she was miserable. She’d sit in the living room and murmur “Och…Och…Och” until you asked her what was wrong. And then she’d let loose with a ten-minute laundry list. So I learned to ignore her. And I also learned that once she thought you were out of earshot, she’d stop moaning.

My mother constantly complained about my grandmother’s neediness and their mutual antagonism and about my father’s frugality, sneakiness, control, etc. My father complained about money, our over-dependence on luxuries like heat and electricity, my behavior and my mother’s opinions. Now his complaints focus mostly on how the liberals have ruined this country but even in the regimes of his chosen party, he was never happy.

So it was inevitable that I learned to complain. I’m pretty good at it and I can elevate passive aggressive behavior to an art form. But I wasn’t happy and I was never comfortable with helplessness. So I learned, first from therapy, then from a 12-step program, how to embrace the positive and reject the negative. I learned to look for alternatives instead of wasting energy bitching about the current situation. It’s not that I never complain. To the contrary, I was really tired yesterday and I probably spent most of the day complaining. I’m human and I enjoy a good bitch session as much as anybody, but once I’m done venting, I focus on changes I can make or make jokes to improve my attitude.

Reformed complainers are like reformed smokers. I can claim both titles. When a smoker tries to quit, smoking trumps every other desire. Once he’s got a few smoke-free weeks under his belt, he still dreams about cigarettes, missing them, wishing he could just have one, preferably with a drink, but he resists. After a few months, cigarettes still smell good but he’s glad he quit. And after a year, cigarettes become so repulsive that he can’t relate to the overwhelming desire he once had.

Once a complainer leaves the bitching life, listening to complaints becomes so abhorrent that the reformed complainer can’t stand to listen anymore. Of course we’re human and no one quits cold turkey. After all, who among us can resist the siren song of expressing discontent? But once bitching’s no longer our way of life, we have little patience for listening to others’ laundry lists. Yes, it’s a bit hypocritical but nobody’s perfect.

So we learn coping skills like annoyance avoidance. It takes a certain amount of resignation to accept that the complainer won’t change, but once we can successfully avoid dealing with the behavior, life becomes so much easier. It’s a self-reinforcing behavior. And we can’t change other people. That’s just the way it works. So we find a way to live with the things that drive us crazy and we survive to love them another day.

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Pulling Out: A Religious Experience

July 11th, 2010

My husband, Matt, earned his boating certification this week. He’s now qualified to pilot a 25-foot sailboat. In honor of his achievement, and to celebrate his efforts toward building his obituary instead of his resume, I’m running this post. I wrote this a few years ago when we lived in Maryland and owned a motorboat. Congratulations, Skipper Matt! You’ve come a long way, Baby!

As a first-time boater, I approach boating with some trepidation. It’s understandable when the boating world presents a “safety” class and all they talk about are fires, drownings, and crashes. (Oh, and sinking. Did I mention sinking?) Because a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, it’s also hard to defer to my fiancée’s experience on bass boats. So you can understand why, when we finally pulled the boat out of the water (in December), I had my doubts. We tried to pull it the week before, but it wouldn’t start. Fun afternoon, really: I stood on the dock, watching Matt crank the engine repeatedly, in rapid succession. “Let it sit a few minutes,” I coached (or nagged, depending on your point of view). “You’ll drain the battery.” Which is exactly what happened. Sadly, it was the last nice, warm day we had.

Well, Matt extracted the battery, bought a battery charger, and set the whole contraption up in our powder room, right under the sink, so you couldn’t wash your hands without getting electrocuted, but I didn’t complain. If this was the key to extracting the boat, I would tolerate it.

The next week, bundled in three warm layers, juiced battery in hand, we set out for the marina. I jogged the three blocks while Matt brought the truck around. Some people get religious when they face their mortality; some just on Christmas and Easter; I always get religious on the way to the marina. “Please, God,” I repeatedly huffed on the jog, “Help us get the boat out this time.”

Matt backed the trailer down the ramp without incident. He unsnapped the boat cover and got in the boat, installed the battery, sat in the driver’s seat and turned the key. Rrrraur rrrrraur rrrraur rrrauh. Please, God, make it start. Please just make it start. Rrr rrr ch ch ch ch ch ch, rrrraur rrrrraur rrrraur. Rrrrraur rrrrraur rrrrraur vroom room roo… After many pleas to the Creator, the engine did catch and hold. As I threw him the ropes, I prayed the engine wouldn’t stall on the 20-foot drive to the ramp. Matt made it to the ramp without incident, even got the boat halfway on the trailer. “Thank you, God,” I thought, “the hard part’s over.”

To avoid the frigid water, Matt climbed up on the trailer, straddling wider on the frame as he moved toward the boat, pulling the cable to the hook. He almost split his jeans, but all went well. He attached the hook, cranked up the boat, and got in the truck.

God definitely has a sense of humor. Matt started his four-cylinder, rear-wheel drive truck, hit the gas and wheeeeeeea, went the right rear wheel. Tried it again. Wheeeeeaaaa. Again. I walked around to that side of the truck and found the problem: the paved part of the ramp doesn’t extend its whole width. It drops off abut 2 feet from the edge and the unpaved part consists of gravel and mud. Matt’s tire was digging into the mud. Frustrated, Matt got out of the truck and found a plank in the grass, shoved it under the wheel and tried again. Wheeeeeaaa! Big, puffy clouds of gray smoke obscured my view of the truck. He jumped out, shrieking, “What’s on fire? What’s on fire?”

Impotently waving away the smoke, I yelled, “I DON’T KNOW!” Turns out the tire’s frantic spinning burned a groove into the plank. “It’s not under right,” Matt said. Uh huh. Kicked it under, got back in the truck. This time the smoke didn’t bother him. I, however, screamed “STOP! STOP!” He pretended not to hear me. Wheeeeaaaa! When he finally did stop, I said, “Honey, I think if you backed the truck down on the paved part of the ramp, you could pull it.”

“No, it doesn’t matter. It’s not gonna work.” Nevertheless, the man climbed back in the truck and, well, you get the picture. After several more tries and lots of smoke, (I swear it’s a direct quote) he said, “Maybe if I pull the truck up and back it down on the paved part, I can get it out.”

“Ok.” That’s all I said.

So we power-launched the boat, driving and stopping short so would it slide back into the water. I held the rope while he created a huge wave with the trailer, wetting the formerly-dry, traction-enabling pavement; pulled it out and backed it in again, this time on the pavement (Hallelujah) and began the whole process again.

Hooked the boat, cranked it up (with roughly a half-inch between it and the dock, got it mostly on the trailer, but not all the way and decided to pull it out of the water and crank on dry land. After a few tries, the tires caught, the truck hauled the boat out of the water, (and this I will never understand) he stopped it while still on an angle to finish cranking. Matt got out of the truck, climbed up on the trailer and I could see him straining as he began to crank. Every time you crank the boat it creaks, and this has always scared me. The boat slowly climbed up the trailer, good, good…PING! “SHIT!”

“What happened?”
Frantically: “The cable broke!”

Normally I am not good in a crisis (ask me about setting the toaster oven on fire), but I was perfectly calm, perhaps because I’d imagined this happening every time we used the crank, and said “Ok, there’s a rope still attached. Tie it to the trailer. Tie it to the trailer, ok?” And God bless him, he did.

Once the boat was tied, Matt said, “I wish it was close enough for the safety strap.” Stretching it to the limit, he was able to attach it. Thy will be done. I owe you one, Big Guy.

We drove it the three blocks home, maneuvered it into the back yard and Matt happened to have a strap to replace the cable. The boat is now out of the water, winterized, we don’t have to buy a new trailer and I am going to church, next week.

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The Perils of Pregnant Purchasing

July 4th, 2010

“Are you going to have a baby shower?” my friend Deborah asked.

“No, you don’t really do it for the second one,” I said.

“But don’t you need stuff?” she asked.

“Not really. The only things we need are a double stroller, dual-room monitors, and some blue blankets. We’re exchanging baby clothes with a friend who’s having a girl, so clothes are covered, and everything else is unisex. He’ll drink from pink bottles. He’s a man of the millennium.”

I’ve heard of showers for the second, third and even fourth baby, but I don’t see the need. I’ve always been very practical, and after experiencing the torrent of stuff that comes with a baby, I’ve decided that I want to be able walk through the house without having to clear a path. Rose was born the day after Thanksgiving. Before she was born, I worried that she’d come in December, thereby cheating herself out of separate birthday and Christmas presents. If I knew then what I know now, I’d have crossed my legs and held out another month. As it stands, she gets legions of dolls, litters of stuffed animals, and assorted toys consisting of roughly three million parts for her birthday, and then a month later, several refrigerator-sized crates full of toys arrive on our doorstep. This phenomenon stems from two sources: the distance between us and Matt’s family and my sister-in-law’s shopping compulsion. At least if Rose had had a different birthday, she might have some time to grow out of the first wave of gifts before she got the second, but this is our destiny.

To top it off, when Rose was born, we lived in an apartment. It was a big apartment, but baby gear and apartment walls soon find themselves at odds. We bought our house right before her first birthday, the same week Matt’s firm announced a huge layoff. Spooked, we almost backed out of the deal, but we looked around at all of our stuff, stroked the bruises we’d collected from bumping into the furniture, and signed the contract.

I can’t tell you how grateful I am for my innate practicality and my anti-clutter conviction. Aside from producing a vulnerability to any magazine headline that screams “Organize Your Life,” (thanks, Real Simple!) it’s saved us from a materialistic focus and the dust devils that come with it.

So when I flipped through The Bump, a mini-magazine at the doctor’s office, the ads and product recommendations read like the jokes in Reader’s Digest (magazines say the darndest things). And boy was I thankful for my status as a seasoned mom. First-time moms are so much more vulnerable to the siren song of unnecessary accoutrements.

My favorite product in The Bump has got to be “BabyPlus.” “BabyPlus” calls itself “a developmentally appropriate prenatal curriculum designed to strengthen your baby’s learning capabilities.” It’s a strap-on speaker that advertises sounds “similar to a maternal heartbeat.” Lord, where do I begin? First of all, what’s an “appropriate prenatal curriculum?” It’s a fetus, for God’s sake. It doesn’t even know how to crap yet. Who sits on the Board of Prenatal Education composing syllabi for a “developmentally appropriate prenatal curriculum?” I was cool with playing classical music (Trans Siberian Orchestra, once) for Rose in utero, and I read to her (“Oh, the Places You’ll Go!” to coax her out), but a prenatal curriculum? What kind of educational Nazi do you have to be to buy into that? And this curriculum is composed of sounds “similar to a maternal heartbeat?” I got news for ya, new moms. If baby isn’t already hearing actual sounds of a maternal heartbeat, you’ve got much bigger problems than choosing an appropriate prenatal curriculum.

My second favorite item as seen in The Bump has go to be the “IntelliGender” gender prediction test. This product calls itself “the world’s only in-home gender prediction test,” promising “a fun way to learn your baby’s gender as early as 10 weeks.” Ok, I admit this one’s a desirable product – if it works. But if it did, wouldn’t it appear on the cover of the Journal of the American Medical Association and not as a paid advertisement in “The Bump?” I mentioned it to my doctor. She said, “If it worked, we’d be using it.” And by the way, it’s not “the world’s only in-home” gender test. Those gypsy women who’d dangle your wedding ring over your baby belly have been making house calls for thousands of years.

Another belly laugh came from reading about “push presents.” Apparently there’s a new trend among parents with too much money. A “push present” is a token presented to the new mom in appreciation for all of the pushing she did to give birth. Ok, nice concept in theory: You brought my baby into the world. I love you. Here’s a diamond tennis bracelet. Unnecessary and ridiculous in practice. While I’d love a token of appreciation for popping out a pup – and I get one every Mother’s Day – more timely, and trust me, better appreciated gifts from dad include diaper changes, midnight feeding shifts, babysitting, laundry and ordering/cooking dinner. Got it, dads? If your wife expects a diamond trinket for pushing, congratulations on your trophy, you old coot; and good luck teaching that kid some values.

“Who buys this stuff?” You’re asking. Well, look no further than the “Glow Q&A” column, which features the following reader question: “I can’t seem to find a diaper bag. If it looks nice, it isn’t functional, and the more utilitarian ones are too childish.” Honey, let me set you straight. You need a diaper bag that holds all of your stuff, doesn’t hurt your back, is washable and repels the stench of sour milk. That’s all. Even if you find one that does all this and looks nice, in two weeks it will sport scratches, old vomit, milk stains and pee. And if the reader question wasn’t illustrative enough, the tagline on this page says, “Submit your own pressing fashion and style queries at thebump.com/look.” The only reason an expectant mother should have “pressing” fashion and style queries is if she works for Vogue. And if she does, she’d be surrounded by fashion and style experts with no need to consult a pregnancy magazine. As most of us know, when you’re pregnant, there aren’t a lot of fashion choices and few of them flatter. You make yourself presentable and you take what you can get. That’s how it works.

Well, if there’s a sucker born every minute, then there’s a sucker mom carrying one for the preceding nine months. And new moms are vulnerable to this kind of marketing – moreso if conception was difficult. Many new moms view pregnancy as a beautiful time in their lives to be cherished and commemorated. The rest of us just try to survive morning sickness. Seriously, pregnancy is wonderful, miraculous, it makes babies, we glow, etc. But focusing on the pregnancy instead of bringing up baby is like focusing on the wedding instead of the marriage – transposed priorities. Once you have the baby, its well-being becomes your top priority — at least it should. Once you become a parent, you remember your childhood and you realize how far-reaching your actions can be. It’s up to you to give that kid the foundation for a well-adjusted, productive life. It’s not about the right gear or instituting a prenatal education. It’s about doing your best to raise a good person. And that’s a lot more complicated than picking the perfect diaper bag.

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