tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15210869984335040512023-11-15T08:08:50.817-06:00Sane MomTrying to raise a rational child in an irrational world.Sane Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11600133896398188870noreply@blogger.comBlogger21125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1521086998433504051.post-40391403608230560192010-07-18T13:11:00.000-05:002010-07-18T13:11:14.283-05:00Stuck in the Middle with WooFacebook is good for a lot of things. For example, I know what all my old buddies are up to (sometimes in excruciating detail), no matter where in the world they are. I have a tangible, visible network of support, a daily reminder that I'm not alone, that I do fit in somewhere. I can build on relationships from the comfort of my own home, without the pressure and awkwardness of face-to-face contact. Hell, Facebook even facilitated my husband's finding a job, snatching us back from the precipice of foreclosure and disgrace.<br />
But there's a downside, and no, I'm not talking about privacy concerns (I have very little to hide). I'm talking about an infestation of woo in my news feed.<br />
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I'm used to a little woo - I went to the Down to Earth School in Silver City, New Mexico, after all, which offered classes like Tai Chi and Psychic Studies as part of the curriculum. Just because I became a skeptic doesn't mean that everyone else has to, and for the most part I can just ignore woo-friendly posts. It's the batshit crazy stuff that's getting me down.<br />
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Take Andrea, for example. She was one of my first friends here in Austin, a fun, gregarious blonde with a somewhat ditzy streak. We were roommates for a while, but we lost touch after a falling out involving a sleazy guy and a purloined telephone calling card. While in a reflective mood one day, I searched for her on Facebook and sent a friend request, which she accepted. Turns out she's got a couple of kids and lives a nomadic lifestyle roaming the beaches and mountains of Mexico. Cool, glad to be in touch, blah blah blah.<br />
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Then she went off the deep end. It started with a post that stated: Vaccines Cause Autism, along with a link to Natural News, one of the crank websites so often blasted by Orac and others. My knee-jerk reaction was to reply, <em>no it doesn't</em>, but I felt that was too curt and would be ineffective. So I linked to the <a href="http://sciencebasedmedicine.org/reference/vaccines-and-autism/">Science Based Medicine vaccine-autism reference page</a> and waited to see how she would respond. Half an hour later, she said this:<br />
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<div align="center"></div><blockquote>if you go into the contributor link at the top of this blog and look up each of the "contributors" and enter them into google, you will find each member has strong ties to big pharm. kind of makes me think that the "non biasness" of their articles might not be so unbiased. this is a really touchy topic with people, i usually don't post stuff like this, but with 1 in 10 American children being diagnosed with autism, its important to start an open dialogue so that answers can be found and the perpetrators can be brought to light, and maybe someday justice</blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Wow. The pharma shill gambit wrapped up in a conspiracy theory, with an appeal to emotion. I was starting to suspect there would be no getting through to Andrea, but I felt I should at least give it an honest try, just one parent to another discussing an important issue. So I replied with the following:</div><div align="left"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><blockquote>The claim that vaccines cause autism is certainly alarming, but I have yet to see credible evidence to support it. I agree that it's a hot-button issue and I mean you no disrespect by disagreeing with your opinion. But since most of the people qualified to write about the issue are doctors and scientists,there will naturally be some overlap with the medical and pharmaceutical industries. Lord knows there's corruption in those industries, but not all doctors and scientists are in the pocket of big pharma. Ultimately, it's the quality of the evidence that matters, regardless of the source. <br />
<div style="text-align: left;">I've been following this issue for some time myself - no one wants to risk exposing their child to unnecessary harm - and have yet to be convinced that the increase in autism diagnosis is due to anything other than an increased awareness of the disorder and a change in the diagnotic criteria. </div></blockquote><em>All right</em>, I thought. <em>If that doesn't get through to her, then nothing will.</em><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;">Well, I guess nothing will. She never responded and, since then, she has really ramped up the crazy. Lately my news feed has been bombarded with reports of her "spiritual awakening," which apparently is coinciding with the "9th wave of galactic energy as predicted by the Mayans". (I know. I couldn't make this stuff up.) She's also been posting more links to Natural News and sites that seem even more far out than that. Soon I may have to take the step that I've taken with only one other irritating "friend" (also named Andrea, oddly enough) -- I'll have to hide her from my news feed. I probably will if she doesn't come down from her trip a little, but I don't want to because it feels like giving up. If I turn away from and refuse to deal with things I find objectionable, I've given up any remote chance I have of influencing that person away from woo. I don't have any delusions that I can somehow reason Andrea down from the ledge, but maybe I can plant a skeptical seed somewhere in her mind. Maybe someday that seed will flourish, her head will clear and she'll ground herself in reality, which really isn't so bad, most of the time. Probably not, but maybe. It's worth a shot.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Andrea's one of the more extreme examples of my woo infestation, but there are others. I also have a friend named Mike, a fellow writer and Austinite, who is quite spiritual. Normally it doesn't bug me at all -- he's an intelligent, empathetic, and courteous man who never imposes his views on others, and I respect his right to his beliefs. But when I heard him drop the term <em>health freedom, </em>my skeptic sense started tingling. (This is one of the antivaxers favorite phrases to use against what they see as coerced vaccination.) And sure enough, he recently posted a link to Natural News. The <a href="http://www.naturalnews.com/029188_nurse_malpractice.html">article</a> itself was innocuous enough, but I wondered if he had ever read the sort of things about Mike Adams, the man behind Natural News, that I had been reading. I had tried to reach Andrea as a parent. How could I possibly reach Mike? Fortunately Mike, unlike Andrea, listens well, is thoughtful and empathetic, and doesn't perceive challenges to his opinions as personal attacks. I decided to try a direct approach. First, I commented on the article.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><blockquote>I read about this case last year - the good ol' boy network strikes again.</blockquote>Then I went on to say:<br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><blockquote>However, I feel I should chime in and state my opinion that Mike Adams of Natural News is a raving nutball and an asshole to boot. I'm reading an article debunking one of his claims right now - if you want me to shoot you the link, let me know.</blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
There. I prefaced it as an opinion, using stronger language than I usually do, and left it up to him as to whether or not to respond. The ball was in his court.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">He replied:<br />
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<blockquote>Yes. I examine all sides. </blockquote><br />
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Encouraged, I shot back:<br />
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<blockquote>I know you do, Mike; otherwise I wouldn't bother trying to change your mind about anything. :)<br />
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Now, this article may not change your mind about Natural News, but I think you'll find that, despite his caustic writing style, Orac has extensive knowledge of medical science, always cites his sources, and has the intention of helping people avoid being taken in by scams and dubious claims.<br />
<a href="http://scienceblogs.com/insolence/2010/07/confusing_workplace_safety_with_patient.php">http://scienceblogs.com/insolence/2010/07/confusing_workplace_safety_with_patient.php</a><br />
This site contains many, many posts on Adams.</blockquote><br />
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He didn't reply with his opinion of the link, but that's cool. I did my part by offering a different perspective, one he probably wouldn't otherwise have heard, on a blog he reads regularly. Whether he chooses to read Orac's articles on Mike Adams or not is beside the point - at least he knows they're there. And something tells me he might just give them a read.<br />
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So I've found yet another use for Facebook. Not to proselytize or push my beliefs (or lack thereof) on my friends. But rather, to state my position clearly and respectfully so that my friends know where I stand. Maybe, just maybe, I'll start a few people down the road to skepticism. But even if I don't, at least I'll know that I spoke up about what matters to me, in the clearest and most effective way I could. </div><br />
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</div>Sane Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11600133896398188870noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1521086998433504051.post-33121852902356625542010-06-13T09:03:00.000-05:002010-06-13T09:03:39.862-05:00First Trip 'Round the SunHarrison's first birthday was not just a day, but a process. <br />
It started with him weaning himself about two weeks before. Yes, my boy stopped nursing of his own accord, much to the envy of my still-nursing friends. He switched to cow's milk with a minimum of fuss, happy to get the instant gratification that he never could from the boob, which required way too much work and patience. Finally, my body is mine again, to use and abuse as I see fit. There were things I loved abut nursing: the convenience, the lack of cost, the closeness with my baby, but I never did get what all the fuss was about. There are women out there who feel exalted by breastfeeding, who love every second of it and who harshly criticize any woman who chooses (or is not able) to do it. Me, I felt more like a mother cow being milked by a rude and impatient calf. Nothing romantic about that.<br />
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His actual birthday fell on Wednesday, June 2nd. All day long I was extra sweet to him and, though he had no idea why, he ate it up. He also ate up his very first cupcake, smearing chocolate frosting all over himself in exactly the way I had hoped he would. I reminisced about being pregnant, about what things were like on the day of his birth, about the profound changes in myself that were heralded by his arrival. I despaired over hospital bills still to be paid and pounds still to be shed. I congratulated myself for not just getting him through his first year, but for ensuring that his first year of life was full of happiness, laughter, and robust good health.<br />
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We had his party that Saturday. I kept it very low-key, and not just for financial reasons. I've been to a lot of kids' parties where Mom is the center of attention, overdressed, fluttering around trying to ensure that every last thing is perfect even though their baby really doesn't give a shit. I admit that I have a tendency to expect too much from parties and to be disappointed when people I like fail to show up or nobody is paying any attention to me. I get anxious and weird and eventually just want everyone to go home so I can cut my losses and go to bed. But this was not my party, and it was about Harrison, not me. All I cared about was whether he and his pint-sized guests had a good time. To that end, I set up a tiny kiddie pool on the patio and a sprinkler on the lawn. I had beer for the grownups and simple snacks like veggies, chips, and dip. I made my own cake, which was decidedly less than perfect - I ended up using the frosting (homemade cream cheese) as a sort of plaster to hold the damn thing together and decorated it myself, spelling out his name in shaky letters, making a border to disguise the misshapen edges, and then dumping multi-colored sprinkles over the whole thing. If you didn't look too close, it was actually sort of cute. <br />
I knew he wouldn't remember it later, but on some level I felt that this get-together would establish a baseline for every party from then on. A few friends, some food and drink, warm sunshine and cool water - what more could anyone ask for? He and two other babies splashed around a bit, playing with ducks, boats, and plastic stacking cups while our friends' five-year-old ran around under the sprinkler which was whirling out on the lawn. When that grew tiresome, we all came in to have the cake (which may have looked merely okay, but tasted awesome) and to open the presents. He got some really cool new toys and tons of attention. Not long after, people started packing up their kids and heading out, leaving all three of us exhausted but satisfied. If that party indeed sets up Harrison's expectations of gatherings to come, I will be thrilled. And yet I was hesitant to remove his party decorations. Maybe it was laziness, but I just couldn't bring myself to take his party banner and balloons off the wall. It didn't quite seem like his birthday was over, somehow.<br />
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The following Monday we took him in for his one-year well-baby checkup which, unfortunately, consisted of four individual shots and a blood draw. Now, anyone who has read this blog knows how I feel about vaccines – they help prevent childhood diseases that were devastating a generation ago, which makes them worth the small risk of adverse effects. But after going through that experience, I have more sympathy for the parents who have a knee-jerk reaction against them. Watching my boy being held down by his daddy and two nurses as he was poked and re-poked was incredibly traumatizing, more so for me than for him. His screams cut to the center of me, provoking a physical reaction somewhere between sobbing and hysterical laughter. I had to actively suppress the part of my brain, honed through hundreds of thousands of years of evolution, which demanded that I knock everyone aside and rescue my poor distressed child. I could see how people with a poor understanding of correlation and causation would link such a distressing event with later developmental problems. As necessary as it was for his long term well-being, at the time it seemed harsh and cruel. Fortunately, it was over quickly, and after being rewarded for his bravery with a cup of ice cold apple juice, he was back to his normal self, albeit a very tired and grouchy version. And I’m pleased to say that he does not appear to have “contracted” autism. Suck it, Jenny McCarthy.<br />
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When we got home I finally took the party decorations down, feeling a sense of closure. All in all, it was a wonderful first year, and I look forward to many more to come.Sane Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11600133896398188870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1521086998433504051.post-25735747753427912052010-05-10T08:03:00.000-05:002010-05-10T08:03:46.452-05:00Thank You, HallmarkBefore I became a mother, I dismissed Mother's Day as a made up, Hallmark-mandated crap fest and I resented being told exactly when and how to appreciate my mom. I know she appreciated the card, phone call, and occasional (finances-permitting) bouquet, but still, the whole thing reeked of phony sentiment to me.<br />
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It got a lot worse while I was infertile. It seemed that the holiday was set up deliberately to mock me, and all the other women who fruitlessly aspired to be mothers. Where were our cards and flowers and TV specials? Who was going to make us breakfast in bed? I always sunk really low on those days, making my obligatory calls to me mom and sister, then avoiding the outside world for the rest of the day. It was a bullshit holiday and everyone who went along with it were just pawns of the flower and greeting card industries.<br />
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Now that I'm fully immersed in mommyhood, I'm whistling a different tune. Being a mom is hard work, no matter how grateful you are to have become one. Sleep deprivation, a complete lack of free time, and caring for someone who is not only utterly and completely dependent, but who is also a raging ball of desires and shifting emotions, well, it wears you down after a while. Plus, like most mommies, I work and keep the house clean. So, yeah, I would like some fucking flowers please.<br />
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I love the idea of husbands and kids, pens poised over the blank space of a greeting card, thinking of what to thank their wives and mothers for. <em>Well</em>, one might think, <em>she sure does a great job of making sure everyone else's needs are met. And she must be exhausted from working so hard, but she gets up and does it all again each day. </em>Whether or not that ends up in the card is irrelevant, at least to me. The important thing is that others ponder the role of mother and acknowledge how committed we are to being good at it. I want my husband to reflect on how a good homecooked meal ends up on the table each night, how the house has not devolved into Hoarders-style chaos, and how I'm loving and gentle to our child, even when his tea-kettle shrieks make my fillings vibrate.<br />
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I'm pleased to say, he came through nicely. I awoke to a lovely bouquet, a gourmet meal (store-bought, but still) heating in the oven, and two touching greeting cards, one from each of them (obviously Daddy picked out Harrison's). My husband cleaned the house, handled the baby-related tasks, and didn't even complain when I went out for a few hours to meet with my writing group. It was a wonderful day. <br />
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So, even though it's a manufactured holiday that leaves infertiles out in the cold, I finally appreciate Mother's Day. One day of being spoiled goes a long way towards easing the resentment of being the busiest person in a family, and reflecting on all the things that mothers do promotes empathy toward them. I don't really care that a heartless multinational corporation got the ball rolling on this holiday; it's ours and we've earned it.Sane Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11600133896398188870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1521086998433504051.post-40388715117258169252010-04-13T15:21:00.001-05:002010-05-10T07:21:13.323-05:00Not Now, Mommy's WorkingBack in 2006, when I first decided it was time to get serious about starting a family, I reevaluated my work situation. Up until then, I had always worked outside of the home, mostly in food service and child care. While there were certain things I liked about these jobs, there was one thing I absolutely hated: actually leaving my house. Maybe it's agoraphobia, or just a deep-seated love of home, but I cannot stand to leave knowing I'll be gone for more than a few hours. It seriously affected my motivation to work, since I would take any opportunity to leave work early, regardless of how badly I needed the money. I worried about how much harder that would get after I became a mother. Could I drive away and leave my child for up to ten hours at a time, probably in the company of another woman who I didn't even know? Although I know plenty of mothers who manage that difficult duty, I think that, for me, it would be devastating. Especially if I was driving off to go watch other people's kids, stepping in for <i>their</i> mothers while <i>they</i> went to work. <br />
<br />
So, along comes 2006. My then-boyfriend and I finally, after nine years, accepted that yes, our relationship was very serious, and we should take the plunge and get married. After years of looking after others' little ones, I was ready for one of my own. The only real issue was: how would I get to stay home with my baby and still earn enough money to maintain our modestly comfortable lifestyle?<br />
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Enter my good friend the internet. Surely, I thought, there has to be some way, other than pornography, to earn a living online. As it turns out, merely having a college degree qualifies you to tutor students online and to score their standardized test responses. I did both of those for a while, then quit the tutoring to focus on the scoring. I didn't bring in much; never more than ten grand a year, but it was a nice supplement to Bill's income, and good god, do I love being at home. I got my house clean and organized, read obsessively, played Sims 2 whenever I felt like it, and actually finished writing a novel. All that was missing was the baby.<br />
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Three years later I <i>finally </i>had a baby, and the whole plan clicked neatly into plac. For about six months. Then, without warning and for a bullshit reason, my husband lost his job. No salary, no benefits. No insurance. Income uncertain. My mind reeled with well-baby visits, illness and injuries, unfilled cavities that had been awaiting the new year's flexible spending account. Until he found a new job, we could not afford to fix anything,get sick or hurt, or buy things that weren't absolutely necessary. I responded to this careening-out-of-control feeling by scheduling as many hours as I possibly could for the upcoming spring scoring sessions. At least I could cover the mortgage for a month or two, I thought. Bill could watch the baby and I could score, score, score.<br />
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But staying home with the baby was <i>my</i> dream, not Bill's, and our new schedule started to take its toll. I missed my son's company, even getting a little jealous hearing his giggles from the other room. Bill missed playing video games and going out for a cigarette whenever he felt like it. Plus, Harrison's top front teeth are coming in, making him much needier and fussier than usual. So instead of scoring happily away, blissfully unaware of my family, I was pulled in several directions at once, trying to keep on top of a busy scoring session and trying to help manage the baby's schedule without stepping on Bill's toes.<br />
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Somehow we all survived, and now I've got a better handle on things. My panic has subsided (or at least receded - it can come roaring back in an instant), Bill has found a part time job/apprenticeship that he enjoys and makes a little money doing, his unemployment benefits are coming in, and he has a good lead on a new job in a better company. All this lets me feel better about scoring less and spending more time as a wife and mother. From now on my family comes first and my job comes second. And any time I wonder if staying home is worth it, I can step away from my desk mid-shift to peek at my sleeping boy. The sight of him makes everything all right.Sane Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11600133896398188870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1521086998433504051.post-74156289296455925632010-03-18T13:21:00.000-05:002010-03-18T13:21:49.285-05:00Oh crap, where'd he go?Up until recently, watching Harrison while getting things done was a breeze. He would hang out in his bouncy chair, or in his playpen surrounded by toys. I could take my eyes off him, to write, or work, or do laundry. <br />
But now he's all over the place. His crawling went from lurching and disorganized to pro status within a few days. Now he's working those arms and legs like a pro, exploring his environment, which is my suddenly fraught-with-hazards living room. For example, he likes to try to pull open the drawer on the coffee table; the child safety latch we installed allows him to open it just wide enough to smash his fingers, which he does. Repeatedly. Point him in a different direction and he's crawling to the window and muscling aside the dogs so he can yank on the curtain, which is secured to the wall with thumbtacks (hey, I never claimed to be Martha Stewart here). Then there's the glass door of the fireplace to bang on and when that gets boring, there are plants to mangle and attempt to eat. Even when I'm standing right over him, watching his every move, he still manages to bump his face into things, get himself wedged into tight spaces, and cram mysterious (and disgusting) floor crud into his mouth. <br />
To top it off, I've got a lot of work coming up in the next couple of months, and I'm seriously wondering how I'm going to manage it. I can't just confine him to his playpen, jumperoo, or crib for hours at a time, just for my convenience. That's not fair to him, nor is it good for his development. I'll just have to split my attention and hope that nothing bad happens to him or to any of the readers I'll be supervising, as I try to give everyone the attention they need and deserve.Sane Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11600133896398188870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1521086998433504051.post-54576548820309049562010-01-28T13:35:00.000-06:002010-01-28T13:35:32.904-06:00The Smile PoliceIt's common knowledge that our attitudes shape our reality. There is no such thing as a crisis, if we choose to view it as an opportunity. If, despite our best efforts, we find ourselves poor, or ill, or depressed, it must have been because we didn't wish hard enough, didn't smile enough, didn't send enough good vibes into the universe. No one likes a complainer. If we all stopped whining, the world would be a better place.<br />
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Not so, according to Barbara Ehrenreich's new book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Bright-sided-Relentless-Promotion-Positive-Undermined/dp/0805087494">Bright-sided: How the Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking Has Undermined America</a>, which traces the history of so-called positive thinking from its Calvinist roots. Rather than being liberating, the practice of positive thinking is in reality relentless self-criticism and blame. It's not that the system is broken, or that the world is full of injustice. The problem is you and your bad attitude. People who believe this are subject to all sorts of abuses, and are expected to keep a fake smile plastered across their faces as they bend over and take it.<br />
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I've been hearing this message for most of my life. I was often labeled a "complainer" or called "negative" when I opened up to people about my life and circumstances. No one wanted to hear how hungry I was, or how none of my clothes fit properly, or angry and violent my dad was when my mom wasn't around. No one was even willing to contemplate what it was like to be me, a scrawny trailer park kid scapegoated by her own family, weird and angry and alone. They rolled their eyes when I talked, told me to "get over it", "quit bitching" and once, memorably, "shut the fuck up." And this was from my friends.<br />
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So I learned to keep my mouth shut. I came to Austin at age 17 determined to recreate myself. Gone was the complainer, the weirdo, the angry misfit. A brighter, more fun girl arrived in Texas, determined to have a great time. But it grew increasingly difficult to maintain my good cheer as college became more stressful, I worked myself to the point of exhaustion, and the debt kept piling up. I struck a nice balance though, or so I felt. I had friends I could be myself around and everyone else got my polite smile and diplomatic conversation.<br />
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Working as a nanny for the conspiracy theorist's wife changed all that. Mabel* (who, unfortunately, worked from home) didn't just expect a positive attitude, she enforced it. No one in her presence was allowed to display negative emotion of any kind. There was zero tolerance for complaints, or even diplomatic disagreements. The word <i>hate</i> was forbidden. Use of the word <i>crud</i> was deemed "awful". Crying was anathema; if the children were upset, I was expected to do everything in my power to soothe and comfort them, regardless of why they were upset. Even facial expressions were carefully monitored, to the point where Thomas the Tank Engine, two-year-old Johnny's* favorite show in the world, was forbidden because "the trains frown." In Mabel's world, children were naturally pure, angelic creatures who should be frolicking happily all day, tended to by perpetually smiling adults. This attitude explains her constant disappointment; her own kids, exhausted from the dysfunctional "family bed" and hungry from only eating "healthy" food (too low in protein and fat, devoid of any sugar or salt to make it more palatable), acted up, shrieking, sobbing inconsolably, sometimes smearing shit on the walls. Sometimes Johnny would masturbate furiously while sitting on the potty, screaming at me when I tried to make him stop. She made them miserable, and I dealt with the fallout.<br />
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I tried to please that woman. I really did. I worked from 8:00 to 4:00 with no break, taking care of the kids, doing laundry and dishes, vacuuming, running errands. I learned not to ask for a break as my request would be met with angry sighs and complaints about how now <i>she</i> would be behind on <i>her</i> work. She hated to see me enjoying myself, even for a moment, so she enforced a no-reading policy, actually removing a book from a room if she suspected my eyes may have been straying from her children to the page. I grew despondent. I woke up every morning with dread in my heart. My fake smile crumbled more and more, until one day Mabel pulled me aside and warned me that if I wasn't happy there, she could replace me with someone who would be. I needed the money so I lied and said I was happy, but inside I was unraveling. <br />
<br />
A few weeks later I finally put in my notice, proud of myself for having made it to six months. The frantic search for a replacement immediately began (revealing just how hollow Mabel's threat to replace me actually was). She applied with a nanny placement service and, foolishly, left her application out where I could read it. Under <i>special requests</i> she had written, "No sad sacks." <i>Why, that's me,</i> I thought. <i>I'm the sad sack.</i> Something in me changed in that moment, as I saw myself characterized in such a way. I realized that this woman had no idea who I was, how my mind worked, or what I was feeling. I had let an irrational, paranoid, spoiled, sheltered woman have complete control over my life, and she had brought out the very worst in me. But now I was free. No more false smiles or suppressed rage, no more feeling trapped in that brick fortress while the world passed by on the other side of the window. I left the house that day smiling for real. <br />
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I no longer make an effort to mask my emotions. If I'm happy, sad, mad, whatever, I let it show on my face. I express it in words. When Harrison gets swept away by an emotion, I acknowledge and name that feeling. As he gets older, I'll encourage him to name his own feelings, to understand and cope with, rather than deny, his essential humanity. I'll teach him that those who would try to control his thoughts and feelings are not to be trusted. And I'll know that every smile, every laugh, every "I love you" is genuine and sincere.<br />
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*totally made-up nameSane Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11600133896398188870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1521086998433504051.post-24693035671139214902010-01-19T12:49:00.001-06:002010-01-20T12:43:40.963-06:00Security BreachLast week I finished an excellent and enlightening nonfiction book titled <b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Science-Fear-Shouldnt-Ourselves-Greater/dp/0525950621">The Science of Fear: Why We Fear the Things We Shouldn't--and Put Ourselves in Greater Danger</a></b>. It was like reality tonic, a refreshing purge of knee-jerk, irrational ideas. The book's thesis is that we are programmed by evolution to have a skewed sense of risk that errs on the side of what we <i>perceive</i> as caution. By becoming aware of these inherent biases, we can recognize them in our own behavior and work to compensate for them. I put the book down and went to bed, satisfied that my family and I were quite safe, relatively speaking.<br />
<br />
I was awakened a mere twenty minutes later by my dog Mary Jane, shivering at my bedside. This was an odd occurrence; she always sleeps in the chaise lounge in the living room, only getting up to go outside when the baby wakes up for his nighttime feeding. She was poking me with her snout, gesturing with her head toward the hallway. I waved her off but she persisted. I got up with a sigh, thinking maybe she had diarrhea or something. Better to get up and put her out than to have a mess to clean up in the morning. My third dog, tiny little Bailey, squirmed out from under the covers to join us, not wanting to be left out. My first dog, the large, old, and morose Dahlia, stayed put on her bed.<br />
<br />
The three of us went down the hallway, Bailey in the lead with Mary Jane on her heels, me straggling behind after a quick glance at the sleeping baby. As Bailey rounded the corner into the darkened kitchen, she recoiled with a volley of high-pitched barks. Mary Jane, her hackles raised, charged into the darkness, also barking. I heard the glass patio door rattle in its frame. I froze in the hallway, stage-whispering, "<i>Shut the fuck up!</i>", thinking only of the baby waking and the ensuing loss of sleep for us both. I wondered if there was an animal on the patio, maybe a raccoon, skunk, or strange cat, foraging for spilled dog food. I peered around the corner and felt a rush of cold air on my face.<br />
<br />
The patio door was wide open. Beyond it, cold darkness. My sleep-addled mind reeled. Why was the door open? I looked to my left, into the darkened living room and surprised myself by saying, "Hello?" No reply. I hurried to the back door and closed and locked it. Behind me, the dogs were still growling, pacing the kitchen. I glanced around. Everything looked the same. I walked into the living room, the dogs trailing, and turned on a light. The room was quiet and empty. Everything looked just as it had when I went to bed. I looked at the garage door but couldn't bring myself to look in there. <br />
<br />
<i>It couldn't have been a person,</i> I told myself. A person wouldn't have run off when threatened by a ten-pound min-pin/rat terrier wearing a hand-me-down baby sweatshirt. A person would have taken something, or ... Jesus. I hurried down the hall to check on my baby again. He was in his crib, still sleeping soundly despite the dog outburst.<br />
<br />
Everything seemed to be in its right place. So why was the fucking door open? My mind leaped to a conclusion. It was my husband, Bill. He was the last one to bed, the last one to let the dogs out and the cats in. I could see it all so clearly. I imagined our cat Big Boy, who is scared of Bill, balking about coming inside. So Bill leaves the door open as he performs some minor task, starting the dishwasher maybe, hoping the cat will dart in while his back is turned. But this dumb version of my husband forgets all about the door, thinking only of resting his beer-soaked bones, flicking off the kitchen light and heading to bed without a second thought. <br />
<br />
I stormed into the bedroom and shook him none too gently by the shoulder. "Hey," I said. "Did you leave the back door open?" <br />
His eyes fluttered open and he looked at me, confused. <br />
"The back door, I said. "It was wide open. <i>Did you leave the door open</i>?"<br />
He hates it when I talk to him like that. "No," he said in a wounded tone. He rolled over, his back to me. He knew he hadn't left the door open. His nagging wife was wrong. End of discussion.<br />
I was irritated that he didn't share my alarm. It had to have been him who left the door open. The alternative, that a malicious stranger had been in my house while my family was sleeping, was unacceptable. To acknowledge that would be to open myself up to a great surge of fear. Adrenaline would flood my body, causing my heart to pound, my hands to sweat. I would lie awake in bed all night, on a solitary vigil against an unknown intruder, my ears attuned to every little sound, checking on my baby every few minutes, a prisoner to my imagination. There would be no sleep that night.<br />
<br />
I have always wondered if I am prone to denial, if I could alter my perception of reality by refusing to see what was right in front of me. As it turns out, the answer is yes. I am and I can. You see, I just barely get enough sleep as it is, and the subconscious thought of a night of wakeful terror sent the rationalization center of my brain into overdrive. This same persuasive voice had, in the past, convinced me that a Tuesday morning was, in fact, a Saturday, that my alarm had been set in error, and that the sensible thing to do was to roll over and go back to sleep. In that instance, I had overridden it and dragged my sleepy butt into work, thus keeping my horrible job. But as tired as I've been since my baby was born, the thought that my husband had left the door open slid right past my bullshit detector and became a conviction. I tumbled into bed and was asleep within seconds.<br />
<br />
My husband woke me up the next morning. "You said the door was open last night, right?"<br />
"Yeah," I said. "Thanks for that."<br />
He didn't take the bait. "I think someone might have been in the house."<br />
Delayed terror from the night before seized me. I sat up. "What? Why?"<br />
"It looks like someone messed with the computer."<br />
"Is anything missing?<br />
"I can't find the digital camera. Was it on the desk?"<br />
I was pretty sure it had been. "Maybe it's on the coffee table." <br />
It wasn't.<br />
We walked around the house together, taking inventory, piecing together clues. A likely scenario started to form, a bit of narrative to impose some structure on this bizarre event.<br />
<br />
A man, alone, walks down our quiet street at night, around the time when most people have just gone to bed. Normally he would do this kind of work during the day, but he's growing desperate for money. Maybe he's hoping to find something to steal, some cash, a stereo, an iPhone, something he can trade down at the corner, at the duplex where different cars are always pulling up for a few minutes at a time. The guy is peeking in windows and checking yards for tools or yard supplies carelessly left outside. <br />
He opens our neighbor's back gate and tries to peek in the windows, but the blinds are drawn, the locks secure. Nothing to steal there. He heads to our back yard, leaving the neighbor's gate open, and uses his knife to slash the nylon tie keeping the gate closed. He leaves it open for a quick getaway and peers into our kitchen window.<br />
Paydirt. A desktop computer, just sitting there. He quickly and quietly assesses his options. The patio door is old and rickety, kept locked by a metal latch and a wooden bar wedged across the bottom. He uses his knife to jimmy open the lock and, as quietly as possible, rock the door so the bar will slide up, allowing him to maneuver it open.<br />
In the living room, Mary Jane's ears prick up. She is suddenly on alert, nostrils flaring. She hears a frightening, stealthy noise, from the kitchen. She creeps from the chair and slinks to the threshold, where she encounters a horrifying sight. The dark figure of a man, hunched over the desk, messing with the family's things. She darts down the hall to go get Mommy. Mommy will know what to do.<br />
Unaware of the dog's presence, the thief spies a digital camera and slips it into his pocket. He then sizes up the computer on the desk, tossing a framed photo of a black lab and a couple of loose CD's onto the desk chair. He decides to go for the monitor first; it's small, easy to carry, and can be unhooked quickly. He moves a speaker to get easier access, and that's when all hell breaks loose.<br />
A dog barks, a shrill burst of sound. No one could sleep through that, and he's caught, utterly fucked if he doesn't get out <i>now</i>. He bolts out the patio door and across the yard, through the back gate that leads down to the creek. No one will find him back there. It's dark and the footing is treacherous so he half slides, half tumbles down the hill to the creek bed. His clothes are now caked with mud, his hands and knees bruised and abraded from the rocks. He just knows that those people called the cops, why wouldn't they, it was obvious they were being robbed. He hustles to put some distance between himself and the house, constantly looking up for police helicopters, comforting himself that at least it wasn't a total wash. At least he got a digital camera, and that could be traded in for at least one fix.<br />
<br />
We'll probably never know more about him than that. There's a remote chance that he'll be caught somewhere else, and that crime will be connected to this one. That's why we called the cops, filed a report, and alerted the neighbors. The immediate danger was past, but whoever this guy is, he's still wandering around out there somewhere, trying to fulfill his deranged needs.<br />
<br />
A part of me wanted to overreact, to buy a gun and set a trap, to take advantage of living in Texas and the right to protect the homestead that goes along with it. But that would be an irrational reaction. Instead of imagining all the horrible things that could have happened to me and my family, I'm going to focus on what actually did happen. The precautions I take will be directly proportional to the legitimate risks I face.<br />
<br />
<br />
To deter future thieves, we put padlocks on the gates, extra locks on the windows, blinds across the kitchen window and patio door. We put up a Beware of Dog sign. Bill trimmed the wooden bar to fit the door better and we started wedging it in higher, making it virtually impossible to open from outside. We now leave the patio light on all night; anyone lurking will be harshly exposed. Eventually we'll get a better patio door, but for now our makeshift security measures will have to do.<br />
<br />
I had grown complacent about the actual dangers of living in my neighborhood. There is crime here, after all. And while it doesn't make sense for me to never leave the house for fear that my neighbors might kill me, it also doesn't make sense for me to make it easy for criminals to get into my house. <br />
After the cops left, I contemplated the book I had just read. I had been smug in the knowledge that my own sense of risk was rational and balanced. But I was wrong; I am just as subject to bias as the next person. This time I got lucky, losing only a digital camera. Thanks to the lessons about safety that we took to heart, there will not be a next time.Sane Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11600133896398188870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1521086998433504051.post-50414144699734908302010-01-04T09:44:00.000-06:002010-01-04T09:44:02.701-06:00Everybody Play NiceThis post may seem like a departure from my usual thoughts on parenting, but I think it suits the evolving purpose of this blog. When I started this blog, the focus was on my infertility and pervasive sadness. Then, when I renewed my interest in it, the focus shifted to caring for a newborn and trying to make decisions based on reason instead of fear. Now my thoughts turn to my budding skepticism, and how to best model rational behavior for my son. His social development is really starting to emerge, and he looks to me for cues on how to respond to the world. It's a huge responsibility and I take it very seriously.<br />
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I'm pretty new to the world of skepticism. It's only been since my baby was born last June that I even apply that label to myself. Since then I've realized how exhausting and frustrating it is to be a skeptic in the face of overwhelming idiocy. There are a lot of ignorant jerks out there (both in the real world and on the internet) and no amount of reason or common sense can get through to them. It's tempting to call a spade a spade and tell people like anti-vaccinationists, creationists, and 9/11 truthers that they're a bunch of jackasses who should leave the room (or comment thread) while the grownups are talking.<br />
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Unfortunately, that's counterproductive, and only serves to further reinforce the notion that skeptics are arrogant, conceited eggheads. There are a lot of people whose minds aren't made up yet, and acting like a jerk will only discredit your cause. Not to mention that, if there are no other skeptics around to rally to your cause, you can find yourself quickly alienated if these topics of conversation come up in a social setting. As someone who has all-too-frequently felt alienated, I know how unpleasant and lonely this can be. Better to just bite your tongue and go along to get along.<br />
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Or is it? Lately I've been made aware of a <a href="http://www.randi.org/site/index.php/swift-blog/814-brand-skeptic.html">third option</a>, one that requires far more patience and carefully thought out speech than most of us are used to. Instead of starting from the premise of "you're wrong, idiot," a skeptic should simply counter misinformation with fact. No raised voices (or all caps), no name-calling, no broad generalizations. None of the latter techniques will get your point across, as they immediately put people on the defensive and give them permission not to listen to anything you have to say. In other words, be nice.<br />
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This is going to be a huge challenge for me. I'm generally not a jerk, but damn I get mad at stupid people. In fact, the name of my blog is an homage to the late comedian Bill Hicks, whose hate-filled tirades are legendary (and hilarious). Like many smart, angry people, Bill Hicks felt like the lone voice of sanity in a world of morons. It can be very liberating to just say exactly what you think, eviscerating your enemies verbally, cutting them down to size. This style of oration works well in comedy; not so much in the real world.<br />
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I don't want Harrison to be an asshole. It'll be hard enough to be raised an atheist and an intellectual without the added burden of an abrasive personality. So it's up to me to not be an asshole, even to someone who richly deserves it. I worked in child care for most of my 20's, and it's been my observation that kids who are jerks have parents who are jerks. If I want Harrison to be a decent kid who other kids don't mind hanging out with, I have to teach him how to speak his mind respectfully. Which means (sigh) that I have to be respectful, too.Sane Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11600133896398188870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1521086998433504051.post-32510064273750528682009-12-15T16:40:00.000-06:002009-12-15T16:40:43.748-06:00The Perfect BirthWe've seen it a million times, played out in movies and on sitcoms until it seems perfectly normal. A pregnant woman (slim and lovely everywhere but her tummy) awakens in the night to labor pains. She shakes awake her spouse, who fumbles around in a panic, putting his pants on backwards, losing his car keys and finding them again, before they get into the car and speed to the hospital or birthing center. They are met at the entrance by a kindly, efficient nurse who ushers the laboring mother into a wheelchair and whisks her into a delivery room. There she writhes around in the bed, screams at her husband, and, when her wisecracking obstetrician arrives, is told to push. After a few intense minutes, the baby emerges, wet and screaming, and is placed on the mother's chest. She is enraptured, transformed, a member of the eternal Sisterhood, connected to all women throughout all time. Proud papa cuts the cord, the goo is swabbed off, and baby is brought to the breast for the first time. Mommy looks into baby's eyes, the angels sing, and they are instantly and profoundly bonded. Variations of this scenario have become engraved in our consciousness and we've come to expect, even demand, that this is how our own births should go.<br />
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For the vast majority of women in the world, this simply doesn't happen. For most, birth is a drawn-out, arduous, dangerous process. Things can and do go wrong, and the outcome of a birth can not be predicted in advance. Complications, both maternal and fetal, arise frequently. Breech presentation. Preeclampsia. Gestational diabetes. For some women, myself included, the baby just won't fit through the pelvis. Luckily for me, I live in a wealthy and prosperous nation. My pregnancy was carefully monitored and, when the disparity in size between his head and my pelvis became apparent, a C-section was scheduled. Many women in the world are not so lucky; they labor for days until the baby dies, at which point it is removed, piece by piece. These women are often left with fistulas, causing them to be incontinent, and shunned by their families and villages. They lose everything, their babies, their husbands, their societal status, due to nothing more than being unlucky enough to be born into a third-world society, devoid of modern obstetrics.<br />
<br />
Devastating loss is not confined to the third world. Even with our amazing technological advances, women in more advanced countries still lose babies. I used to attend a support group for pregnancy and infant loss, and I've seen firsthand the sorrow and guilt a mother faces when she loses a child. I've seen pictures of a stillborn baby, so beautiful and perfectly formed, so tragically still and lifeless. I remember, and will never forget, the names of the dead. Brisa, Meredith, Bridget Bell. These are all children that never were. Their parents hold onto those names, as they hold onto anything that connected them to their lost children. In their short time on earth, these babies were beloved.<br />
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In light of these tragedies, questions of pain management, birth plans, laboring positions, and the birth "experience" seem trivial. To a woman who has experienced loss, any birth that ends in a live baby is a success. If that baby is healthy and the delivery is not nightmarish, well, that's icing on the cake. And to any idealist who insists that there's only one right way to give birth and that mothers are entitled to have it that way, I have only two words: fuck you.<br />
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In my case, the knowledge of this suffering stripped away not only my delusions, but my very ability to delude myself. I could no longer kid myself that certain things were "meant to be" or to believe that old cliche that states "everything happens for a reason". It was a rough road to skepticism and, while I'm not happy to have gone through such heartache, I am glad to have my blinders stripped off and the world laid bare. Because, although nature can be cruel, it can also be full of majesty and wonder, and when you open yourself up to sad truths, you also open yourself up to profound joy and awe.<br />
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When I heard my baby cry for the first time, as he was yanked through an incision in my abdomen, I felt that sense of awe, along with a wash of relief. After nine months of constant worry, he was finally out, and he was wonderfully, gloriously, alive. I didn't mind that he was promptly whisked away to be poked, prodded, tested and weighed. I knew he was in competent, professional hands, watched over by his proud father. The nurse put a cool hand on my brow and told me I could take a nap if I wanted, while they stitched me up. I closed my eyes and reveled in the knowledge that we had both made it, that my beautiful son and I had the rest of my lifetime to get to know each other.<br />
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Birth is only the beginning of motherhood, as a wedding is only the beginning of the marriage. The rite of passage isn't nearly as important as what follows. Thanks to the incredible stroke of luck that had me born in America, I am now a mother. And no woman on this planet, living or dead, has ever loved her child more than I love mine, regardless of how that child was born.Sane Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11600133896398188870noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1521086998433504051.post-67724446352009217952009-12-09T09:04:00.000-06:002009-12-09T09:05:58.708-06:00Cohabitation is EeeevilllWe took our boy to the pediatrician last week for his six month checkup. As usual, we waited way too long (over an hour) to actually see the doctor. And, as usual, we soothed our impatience by reminding ourselves that we love our son's doctor, and so does our son. Dr. H is affable, friendly, a little goofy-looking. He reminds me of a Muppet with his big smile and googly eyes behind his thick glasses. When he bustles into the exam room, full of good cheer, we always feel better about the excessive wait in the claustrophobia-inducing well-baby waiting room, the incompetence of the front desk staff, and the rudeness of his young nurses.<br />
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This visit was no different, at first. After Harrison's weigh-in and measurements, we were presented with a packet of photocopied pages outlining milestones, vaccine schedules, feeding requirements, etc. etc. My husband (who is kind enough to accompany us when he can) flipped through the packet while we waited for the nurse to come in with the array of required shots. He was stunned to come across a sheet of paper titled: COHABITATION. According to this document, "research" shows that cohabitation (living together without being married) causes many "problems for the couple, children of the union, and society." It goes on to claim that cohabitating couples are more likely to engage in domestic violence, more likely to cheat and bring home STD's, and more likely to get a divorce if they <i>do</i> eventually get married. Men, according to this same elusive "research" see cohabitation as a convenience that allows them to be violent towards their partners and (are you ready for this?) to be accepting of date rape.<br />
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Holy fucking shit. Who does our doctor think his patients <i>are</i>?<br />
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My first problem (and there are many) is with the supposed research these claims are drawn from. There is not a single citation for any of these sources. Obviously it is assumed that we the patients are not smart enough to question extraordinary claims such as these, or to evaluate the sources who make the claims. We are expected to take it as gospel simply because our doctors have proclaimed it to be so. I rather suspect that the source of this information is a religious-based organization, which brings me to my second problem: proselytizing. I wholeheartedly resent anyone trying to influence me to join, support, or conform to their religious beliefs. The doctor's office is no place to push a religious agenda. It is none of our pediatrician's business whether his patients are married or merely shacking up. I shudder to think how a couple of gay parents would be viewed by this same "research".<br />
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Bill and I lived together for a long time before we got married. We were as close as any married couple and, while we were not without our disputes, our home was free from STD's, violence, and rape. Since we got married, a few things have changed. I took his last name, we started filing taxes together, and people have finally gotten off our backs about living "in sin". We don't love each other more than we used to, we still fight with about the same frequency and intensity, and we still have consensual, monogamous sex. <br />
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This misguided judgment of my family's history is the last straw. We're good parents who love each other and our baby wholeheartedly. It's time to find a pediatrician for whom only our medical history is relevant. God has no place in my marriage and, ideally, will have no place in my son's doctor's office.Sane Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11600133896398188870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1521086998433504051.post-91434128683866521782009-11-07T13:19:00.000-06:002009-11-07T13:24:50.335-06:00Feeding Ain't Easy (But It's Necessary)Feeding a baby is one of those frustrating tasks where you have to rely on conventional wisdom, teasing out sensible advice from baseless truisms. Everyone's an expert, convinced that they have the nutritional key to raising a healthy, well-fed child. The problem is, there's a lot of different information floating around out there, a lot of it contradictory. Even among actual experts, such as pediatricians and lactation consultants, there's a lot of disagreement. And it's not something that can be easily cleared up through scientific experimentation; who on earth would enroll their child in a study where they could possibly end up malnourished or poisoned? So it's left to us, the parents, to figure out how best to feed our babies.<br />
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Take breastfeeding, for example. To new moms today, it is touted as the best, dare I say the <i>only</i> way, to properly feed your newborn. If you feed your poor defenseless child from a bottle of formula, you are condemning him or her to a life of bad health, below-average intelligence, and emotional attachment issues. <i>Any</i> woman can breastfeed, with the proper support and motivation. At least, that's what breastfeeding advocates (or <i>lactivists</i>, as they're sometimes called) swear by. If for some reason your breasts don't produce milk, it's because you weren't trying hard enough. You have failed your second test of motherhood (the first being an unmedicated "natural" birth).<br />
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This is, of course, total horseshit. What should matter, above all else, is that your child <i>has enough to eat</i>. If you can produce enough high-quality milk from your breasts, well, good for you. I'm serious. You're very lucky. Some women have problems, and this is where sound reasoning has to trump feelings of inadequacy.<br />
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My baby, for example, was born big and hungry. His blood sugar was dangerously low minutes after his birth. There was no question of whether or not a bottle of formula was appropriate. It was medically necessary to prevent long-term damage to his brain and organs. My husband informed me of this about a half-hour later, as I lay in the recovery room after my C-section. My first question upon hearing this, and the only one that really mattered to me, was, "Is he all right?" And yes, he was just fine. <br />
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While I still wanted to breastfeed (hey, it's free, readily available baby food), I didn't consider it a massive failure to have a false nipple inserted into my son's mouth before my real one could get there. I brought him to my breast as soon as I could. But it quickly became apparent that my colostrum just wasn't doing it for him. Rather than watch him scream with hunger, I supplemented with the formula provided by the hospital.<br />
<br />
You're probably expecting me to say that he's now a formula fed baby, and doing fine, but actually, he's a titty baby all the way. You see, instead of feeling like I had failed hat breastfeeding and giving up, I stuck with it. It hurt at first, and sucked hard (no pun intended), but I was determined. Eventually, my milk came in, abundantly, and as soon as it did, bottles were history. If I had bought into the false either/or dichotomy of breast versus bottle, we'd be struggling now to pay for his formula, adding extra stress to our lives and further straining our budget.<br />
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He's five months old now, and we've added solid food to his diet. There are as many different opinions on this subject as there are kinds of parents. Some experts advocate starting early, around four months, and introducing baby to a variety of flavors and textures right off the bat. Others caution to exclusively breastfeed until six months, at which point single grains can be introduced, one at a time with at least a week between them. Some people say to introduce veggies before fruit. Others say it doesn't matter a whit what order foods are introduced in (I tend to agree). Some people are convinced that babies can easily develop food allergies if the wrong food is added at the wrong time. So how do we parents know who to listen to? Which of these experts has the right answer?<br />
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Hell, don't ask me. I'm trying to figure this stuff out, too. Ultimately I've had to rely on that old standby, observation and common sense. Basically, I'm feeding him stuff and seeing what happens.<br />
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I take precautions, of course. No big chunks that he could choke on, no citrus (too acidic), nothing too hot or spicy (though I do love to add a sprinkle of cinnamon to his fresh applesauce, and will continue to do so until someone gives me a good reason not to). Instead of having a rigidly timed feeding schedule, I feed him when he's hungry and stop when he's full.<br />
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How do I know I'm feeding him the "right" way? Because he's doing fucking great, that's how. He's robust, good-natured, and energetic. He sleeps well, poops fairly often, and has yet to come down with sniffles or a fever. <br />
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I worked in child care for many years and have seen scores of pale, listless, underfed kids. And all too often, they were the result of parents who chose one expert's advice to follow, at the exclusion of all others. They <i>believed</i> they were feeding their children the right way and nothing could change their minds.<br />
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The point is, I don't have all the answers. No one person does. It doesn't hurt to listen to the experts, but we all have to figure it out for ourselves, based on what seems to be working for us and our babies.Sane Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11600133896398188870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1521086998433504051.post-82850059964905491682009-11-02T14:26:00.000-06:002009-11-02T14:34:42.688-06:00J.B. Handley: Christ, What an AssholeOne of my talents has always been to see things from another person's point of view. It's what makes me a good writer and a generally nice person. I notice and size up other people while I go about my daily activities, driving or grocery shopping. I try to be courteous and thoughtful, so as not to piss anybody off and bring about unwanted confrontation. For the most part, I avoid problems, and everything goes smoothly.<br />
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But I have little tolerance for assholes. I honestly can't figure out where they're coming from. Why would anybody want to act like that? Why would somebody driving an SUV and yakking on a cell phone swerve into my lane, and then flip <i>me</i> off when I honked? Nothing makes me more angry than pure, unbridled assholishness, especially when I'm out and about with my son and some jerk puts him in danger.<br />
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Which is why people like <a href="http://scienceblogs.com/insolence/2009/10/the_anti-vaccine_movement_strikes_back_u.php">J.B. Handley</a> really stick in my craw. The guy's posts and articles make me cringe. Not only does he spread dangerous misinformation that puts my child and others at risk, but his posts ooze with hate and condescension towards anyone who makes even the most diplomatic argument against him. He's a bully, the kind of person who probably made fun of nerds like me when he was a kid, the ones who made going to school so miserable.<br />
<br />
So I wasn't at all surprised that he said awful things about <a href="http://www.wired.com/magazine/2009/10/ff_waronscience/">Amy Wallace</a>, a female journalist bold enough to take on the volatile topic of vaccine rejectionism. And I admit to feeling a sense of sadness and defeat at reading such hateful things about someone I had grown so quickly to admire. The comments on her article seemed to prove that any attempt at reason or sanity on this topic is followed immediately by vitriol, the written equivalent of being flecked with someone's spittle while they shout at you, jabbing a finger in your face. <br />
<br />
But J.B. Handley is one asshole who isn't getting away with it, not this time. He didn't anticipate the level of backlash his foolish words would unleash. Not just among feminists, but among anybody with a shred of reason or civility. And guess what, haters? Up till now you've been the loudest, but there's a lot more of us than there are of you.Sane Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11600133896398188870noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1521086998433504051.post-45429012695934485102009-10-22T09:55:00.000-05:002009-10-28T13:55:15.325-05:00How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love VaccinesEvery parent wants to do what's right for his or her child.<br /><br />It's a no-brainer. I don't think there's a mom or dad alive who would say otherwise, even those that are neglectful or abusive. Most of us really try to do right by our children. We think if we buy the right brands, read the right books, and stay informed about the myriad of dangers in the world, our kids will grow to be healthier and smarter than all the others.<br />So when a mom reads an article on a website like Huffington Post or listens to Jenny McCarthy, that protective instinct gets triggered. <span style="font-style:italic;">My god</span>, they think. <span style="font-style:italic;">What if it's true? </span><span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-style:italic;">What if I'm subjecting my child to autism or a neurological disorder just to avoid a few days of sniffles? What kind of mother does that make me?</span></span><br />If the perceived dangers about vaccines were true, it would be our duty as parents to ask questions, to refuse unnecessary vaccinations and to boost our children's immune systems through more "natural" processes. <span style="font-style:italic;">If</span> it were true that vaccines are dangerous.<br />The problem is, it's not true. The evidence piling up simply doesn't support that the risks of vaccines outweigh the benefits. (No, I won't add citations to prove my claim -- this isn't a science website. If you want citations, visit Science Based Medicine or Respectful Insolence. I often do.)<br />There's risk in everything. Every time I strap my baby into his car seat I feel an awesome sense of responsibility. It's a big scary world out there and anything can happen. Should I get him out of the car and take him back into the house? No. Because while the world may be scary, he has to learn to live in it. It's my job as a parent to teach him how, and giving into my fears sets the wrong example. The minor risk of a traffic collision is far less than the benefit of taking him to the grocery store so he can see new places and things, and see his mommy reacting calmly to all the lights, noise, and people.<br />Similarly, the benefits of vaccines outweigh the risks. Things can and do go wrong with vaccines, sometimes leading to health problems more severe than the ones the vaccines were designed to prevent. Rarely. And sometimes people get hit by meteorites hurtling from the sky. Again, rarely. Sometimes bad luck is unavoidable, but things seem to work out okay most of the time. A far more serious risk, in my mind and according to medical opinion, is of a serious, debilitating disease like mumps or polio. I can imagine all too well standing vigil by my son's hospital bed while he struggles for breath, suffering. The very image makes it hard for me to breathe. I want to turn away from the thought, but I won't. Because that horrifying scenario, which can happen, <span style="font-style:italic;">does</span> happen to innocent children every day, is a <span style="font-style:italic;">real</span> fear, one worth acting on. The imaginary fear of vaccine-induced autism, unsupported by any credible evidence, is not.<br />What it comes down to is trust. Who are the people making these outrageous claims about dangerous vaccines, causing fear and panic, hijacking our mothering instincts to further their political agendas? Are they doctors and scientists? Rarely. More often they are movie stars and talk show hosts. But for some reason, people trust familiar faces and are willing to accept any garbage that comes out of them. <br />Vaccine rejectionism is based on belief, not fact. There is no evidence strong enough to convince an anti-vaxer that he or she is wrong. It's my duty to teach my son how to distinguish between belief and fact. It's one of the greatest gifts a parent can pass on, right up there with a long life free of preventable disease. Because, like all parents, I want to do what's right for my child.Sane Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11600133896398188870noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1521086998433504051.post-57695813794531882392009-10-08T11:21:00.000-05:002009-10-08T12:48:21.864-05:00The End of My Love Affair with WooBefore I went through infertility hell, I was a firm believer of woo. I took herbs, I went to a chiropractor, I attempted (and failed repeatedly) to meditate. I believed that humans could consciously manipulate unseen flowing energy to manifest material desires and perfect health. I paid attention to synchronicity and saw patterns in random events. The universe was a benevolent place, there was a plan for my life, and all my adversities were merely life lessons meant to aid me on my spiritual journey.<br />Then the roof caved in. Nothing I believed, no remedy I tried, could stop my miscarriages from happening. Whatever lesson I was meant to be learning was lost on me. If there was a God, or a Benevolent Universe, He or It was repeatedly killing my offspring before they could even get started becoming people. Who could be cruel enough to do such a thing?<br />I cast about for answers. I believed I could heal myself and bring forth new life. I just needed to get my chi aligned or my chakras cleared, or ... something. Vitamins, maybe? How about jumping rope to stimulate my ovaries? Acupuncture? Reiki? Exotic fruit?<br />My insurance didn't cover any of that stuff. It did, however, cover a reproductive endocrinologist (mentioned in a earlier post). I figured, what the hell? I'm desperate enough to try anything. I began working with Dr.K and in the meantime, I did some research on "alternative" fertility treatments. There was a clinic here in Austin whose website caught my attention. Through a combination of acupuncture, herbs, and various other "non-Western" modalities, they practically guaranteed success. It was tempting, believe me, but it was also expensive, way more than we could afford. I considered starting a savings account or trying to hit up family members. But first I wanted some kind of evidence that the stuff worked. I asked Dr.K for advice and he said, very diplomatically, that if I thought it would give me a sense of control and make me feel better, there was probably no harm. But he was careful not to endorse or recommend it. <br />So I looked into it, starting (of course) with the google search, and branching outward from there. I started reading Junkfood Science, Respectful Insolence, Science-Based Medicine. I started reading the blogs of people who comment on those blogs. I started learning how to interpret evidence, how to find flaws in logic, and how to separate emotion from reason. What I discovered has led me out of the darkness of ignorance and back into the fold of rational, scientific thought.<br />My miscarriages weren't the result of a misaligned spine or negative energy. They were complex biological events happening at a level completely beyond my ability to control. I didn't need to explore my soul; I needed to get to know my body, in real, concrete ways. I needed to let my doctor find the problem so he could find the solution. Along the way I got a complete overview of my health -- no genetic abnormalities, no blood disorders, no immunological problems, healthy thyroid, clear fallopian tubes, a healthy uterus and beautiful ripe ovaries -- and learned that I am, in fact, a very healthy person. This was in stark contrast to my former beliefs, where every bad mood or period of tiredness heralded a serious malady of body and soul that could only be cured in an obscure, often expensive way.<br />I put my faith in medical science and my lifelong dream of motherhood was fulfilled. Not because I learned the right lesson and the universe saw fit to reward me, but because with a combination of hormones and surgery, my knowledgeable and attentive doctor was able to compensate for the biological misfire that was keeping me from staying pregnant.<br />For all of this, I'm a better parent. Not just because of the losses and the greater appreciation they bring, but because I want to teach my child to think critically, to not fall for the same nonsense and illusion that I once fell for. I'll do him a huge favor by teaching him how to think like a scientist. I'll raise a thoughtful child who will grow to be a decent human being. And that has been my goal all along.Sane Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11600133896398188870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1521086998433504051.post-30755157236353467882009-09-16T09:27:00.000-05:002009-09-16T09:33:16.795-05:00Wow, What a BummerI'm back. And this will be brief, because my baby is sleeping.<br /><br />One year ago, I got pregnant. And this time, despite my certainty that it wasn't possible, I stayed pregnant for nine months. On June 2nd, I gave birth to a healthy 9lb 3oz baby boy. I named him Harrison.<br /><br />So, naturally the tone of this blog is going to change. I was tempted to delete it and start another one, but after reading over my heart-wrenching first few posts, I've decided to just keep going with this one. After all, that profound sadness was a huge part of my life for a long time, and I can't deny that it has changed me. It's easy to lose sight of that when I see my baby sleeping and feel so overwhelmed with joy.Sane Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11600133896398188870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1521086998433504051.post-81455981778317711282008-02-26T11:23:00.000-06:002008-02-26T11:35:49.439-06:00Cuckoo for ClomidThe great thing about having a blog which nobody reads is that there's no pressure to post on a regular basis. The bad thing is, without this pressure, I'll never post at all, or at least infrequently enough to be called "hardly ever."<br /><br />At least I have a good excuse. For the past three months, on cycle days 5-9, I've been a completely deranged maniac. Oh, I cover it up pretty well, in general. But pity the poor fool who tailgates me on the highway when I'm doing a perfectly reasonable 70 miles per hour. Last week I shook my fist and offered a good cock-punching to the asshole behind me, who wisely backed off.<br /><br />But that's Clomid for you. Whatever I'm feeling at any given time, the drug amplifies it into a grotesque parody of an emotion. The first month I was angry at the world and all the dumbasses who live in it. The second month, I loved all the darling miracles of creation who inhabit this mystical sphere of life. Plus, I was hornier than I've been since puberty. I felt like everything was finally lining up. Until my period started. This month, I'm world-weary and cynical in a way that surprises even me. There's no God, no benevolent Universe and Divine Order. Thigs aren't Meant To Be, or Learning Experiences, or Life Lessons. Life is just a bunch of stuff that happens, and most people are delusional idiots for believing otherwise.<br /><br />Not that I'm bitter or anything.<br /><br />Maybe I'll have to eat my words later this month, when I get a positive pregnancy test. Maybe I'll start to believe in things again, other than just the inevitability of death for us all. Maybe monkeys will fly out of my butt. I guess stranger things have happened.Sane Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11600133896398188870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1521086998433504051.post-34753154293400086742007-11-27T11:01:00.000-06:002007-11-27T11:16:42.733-06:00The Disgusting MiracleA couple of months ago, just after miscarriage #4, I found a miniature rat terrier in my front yard. The poor thing was obviously neglected, scrawny and crawling with fleas. She's also the sweetest little dog I've ever met. I tried to reunite her with her owners, but it seemed that nobody wanted dear, sweet Olive, so of course we ended up keeping her. She did her best to be my baby, always wanting to be held, fed, and cuddled. And she got fat. Really, really fat. And we realized, uh-oh, she's pregnant.<br /><br />Fast forward to Sunday morning, when I was awakened at 4:30 by some odd grunting. Olive was on the floor looking up at me, and there was a purple sac on the carpet next to her. I was up in a flash, getting her settled on a pile of blankets and towles, and for the next four hours, we watched the alarming spectacle of birth.<br /><br />Now, I've tended to romanticize the whole process of becoming a mother, like most people do about things they desperately want but can't have. I tend to forget the down side, the grossness and the pain, that comes even from a healthy, normal labor and delivery. Watching poor Olive straining and bleeding was difficult.<br /><br />But now she has four tiny, squealing puppies (who I can't help but think of as babies), and she loves the shit out of those guys. All day long she lies curled around them, getting up only if it's urgent, like to go poop in the living room or to chase one of the cats for getting too close. I have to put her food dish under her face twice a day so she'll eat, because as soon as she hears them crying, she's right there, licking and nosing.<br /><br />In my post-miscarriage distress I had forgotten that birth actually <em>does</em> happen, and that it's not supposed to be neat. Nature works in mysterious, gross ways. This didn't happen because Olive willed it, but because biology demanded it.<br /><br />I can't wait to feel the way Olive feels, that mixture of protectiveness and tenderness toward somebody so tiny, so vulnerable. I think that makes it worth the pain and the shocking visceral experience of birth.Sane Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11600133896398188870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1521086998433504051.post-27658591441990187772007-11-06T08:55:00.000-06:002007-11-06T09:15:39.059-06:00Bizarro BabiesOne of my very close friends, Y, got pregnant about a week before I did. Due to a miscarriage in her past, she was apprehensive about her pregnancy, like I was about mine. We thought we'd go through it together; the worry, the milestones, our rapidly expanding bodies. Our kids would play together and be lifelong friends.<br /><br />Stupid me. Of course I lost the pregnancy. I <em>always </em>lose the pregnancy. She, naturally, did not.<br /><br />Don't get me wrong--I'm thrilled for her. But I'm equally sad for myself. Because now one of my very best friends is a tangible reminder of what I lost and how things ought to be, but aren't. I have to watch her belly bump poof out, hear her talk about cravings and strange emotions, see the hope and joy on her face when she talks about the future. She says things like, "Just wait until you get to 10 weeks. It feels so strange."<br /><br />You know what? There <em>is</em> no ten weeks. I've been waiting to get past the first trimester for eighteen months now. I don't believe ten weeks is even possible for me. I have no evidence that it is, and plenty that points to the contrary.<br /><br />So her baby will be another of what I call "Bizarro Babies", kids that have exactly the opposite of what mine do: life outside the womb. <br /><br />The first Bizarro baby belongs to a friend of my best friend, who got pregnant just a couple of weeks before I did. Now she has a bouncing eight-month-old who I can't bear to look at. Then my sister-in-law got pregnant with her fifth(!) just as I got knocked up for the second time. Now she has a lively and cuddly six-month old, who was plunked into my arms the last time I visited. I didn't know it, but I was pregnant then, which must have been why it didn't kill me to look into his eyes. <br /><br />The third one was a chemical pregnancy, there and gone before I even got used to the idea, so I was spared a Bizarro baby on that round, although Nicole Richie's pregnancy parallels that one.<br /><br />And now the fourth and most painful, because I will love this baby just like I love my friend and her fiancee, who deserve to be parents as much as anybody in history ever has. Except for me, of course.<br /><br />I just hope that Dr.K can help fix whatever is wrong with me, so that I'll be good and pregnant by the time Y is wheeled into the delivery room. Otherwise, I'll be the biggest downer the maternity ward has ever seen. And my infertility will have cost my dearly, by driving a wedge into one of my most enduring and rewarding friendships.Sane Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11600133896398188870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1521086998433504051.post-16948751460398833662007-10-31T08:40:00.000-05:002007-10-31T08:51:07.978-05:00The HorrorIf my first pregnancy hadn't failed, I would have a bouncing eight-month-old baby to dress up in a ridiculous costume and hurriedly snap photos of before she tipped over. I'd hand out candy with her nestled in the crook of my arm and everyone who came to the door would go "Aww...".<br /><br />But since that's not happening, at least not in this dimension, I'm not feeling Halloween this year. Not at all.<br /><br />It's like I'm stuck in a time warp, and nothing significant has changed since last Halloween. Or the one before. Or the one before that. At least when I first moved into this neighborhood I believed that soon I would have my own children to add to the parade of Trick-or-Treaters. But now I'm unbelievably jealous of families, of ladies my age and younger who are inundated, overwhelmed with children. I can't handle a non-stop parade of the kind of cuteness that has been cruelly denied to me.<br /><br />So we're turning off all the lights and going out for margaritas. The kids can just pass right on by for all I care. Someone else can ooh and ah over their costumes, and hand out the tooth-rotting treats they crave.<br /><br />I quit.Sane Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11600133896398188870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1521086998433504051.post-36694699436590761472007-10-29T09:36:00.000-05:002007-10-29T10:15:19.313-05:00The game planEarlier this month DH and I went to see an RE. <br /><br />Not that Dr.G (my OBGYN) hasn't done everything he can. He had my arm poked and repoked so my blood could be thoroughly tested. He scheduled an hsg, during which my uterus was injected with radioactive dye and x-rayed. He had my DH's blood tested for genetic abnormalities. All normal.<br /><br />So Dr.K, the RE, sat down with us and figured out a plan. He thinks it's a hormonal problem. We're going to wait until my next NP (normal period), then test my progesterone midway through my next cycle. After another NP, we'll start a round of Clomid. Then, after ovulation, I'll start a round of progesterone suppositories. If all goes well, I'll be pregnant by Christmas. And hopefully stay pregnant for a whole nine months this time.<br /><br />Keep your fingers crossed!Sane Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11600133896398188870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1521086998433504051.post-58370492552491707072007-10-24T10:09:00.000-05:002007-10-29T10:18:09.505-05:00Who are you and what are you doing here?There's about a billion blogs out there about infertility. If you found this site at all and I'm not just talking to myself, you might be wondering what makes mine different.<br /><br />Well, me, I guess. I've never done anything the normal way. I was born into a family of loons (no offense, guys), raised in a trailer park, and educated at the Down to Earth School in Silver City, New Mexico. I never went to prom, or took the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">SAT's</span>, or had a sweet sixteen birthday party.<br /><br />You might be saying, so what? Lots of people have skipped one or more rites of passage.<br /><br />But eventually most people have kids. It's part of becoming a grownup. It's easy; all you have to do is have unprotected sex, right? That's what they tell us in middle school when they're trying to scare us into keeping our legs closed. You can get pregnant the <em>very first time</em> you have sex, if you're not careful.<br /><br />So I was careful (mostly). Then, after years of a committed relationship to a good guy, I said goodbye to the pill forever. We got married last June and, as if to prove that the universe is an orderly and loving place, I got pregnant on our honeymoon. Everything was falling into place. After years of taking care of other people's children as a day care worker and later as a nanny, I was finally going to have one of my own. My kid was going to be special, too. Brilliant. And I'd be there every step of the way, guiding her with a wise and patient hand. We'd have fun. Life would be injected with energy and simple joy. I'd have something to do, someone to talk to who would love me with all her heart. I was convinced it was a girl. Her name would beNaomi.<br /><br />My doctor didn't handle my first prenatal visit very well. She never came out and said the word "miscarriage". She made a bunch of cryptic comments and let my DH (dear husband, in infertility blog lingo) piece it together. That little curled-up person shape I could see on the ultrasound, monitor? Well, it was dead, and had been for a couple of weeks.<br /><br />I don't need to tell you what the next few weeks were like. Surgery, a drug-induced fog, a lot of crying, hours and hours fantasizing. I read <em>The Talisman</em> cover to cover for like, the hundredth time. I stared at the bird cage. And I thought, <em>I'll never get over this. This is the worst thing that will ever happen to me.</em><br /><em></em><br />Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice...stop me if you've heard this one. I miscarried again in November, at five weeks. Then had a chemical pregnancy (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">google</span> it) in May. Then, just a few weeks ago, I had another miscarriage at three and a half weeks. That's four...should I keep going?<br /><br />That's a rhetorical question. Of course I'll keep going, even if my hostile uterus chokes the life out of a dozen embryos. Hell, a hundred. Because I'm obsessed, and I won't stop putting myself through this hell until I hold a living, breathing, warm baby in my arms.<br /><br />Or I'll go through a couple more rounds, with the help of an RE (again, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">google</span>), realize yet again that I don't have the <em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">cojones</span></em> to kill myself, give my poor body a rest, and start looking into foster care (we're way too poor for adoption). Guess we'll see what happens.<br /><em></em><br /><em></em>Sane Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11600133896398188870noreply@blogger.com0