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People who shouldn’t

Me, the mom1 Comment

In everyday life, we often encounter people who are in the wrong job. Sometimes it’s because they are incompetent, other times because their talents would be put to better use elsewhere.

One of our local radio stations features this complete pair-of-clown-shoes-of-a-man named Jonathan as the morning DJ. Someone must have told him once that he was funny and he believed it. Here are two examples of his “jokes”:

“Kim and Kanye West are having a baby boy. Maybe they could name him South West and save on airfare.”

“That song was ‘Why You Gotta Be So Rude?’ People don’t ask me that. They ask, ‘Why you gotta be so dude?’”

I hate him so much. The worst part? He pauses for laughter. As if I’m going to be guffawing in amusement so loudly that I will miss his next gem. It took me a while to figure that out. The first few times I just assumed he had dropped dead in the studio. (I should be so lucky.)

Now, I’m no expert in broadcast media but I would assume the job of a DJ is to amuse or at least interest people so they don’t change the station.

And I know just the people for the job: Sandra and Bernice from the Food Lion.

Sandra and Bernice are goddesses among women who work the cash registers weekday mornings. They treat everyone like a long-lost friend and know each other well enough to banter like sisters. I could listen to them all. day. long.

Sandra: It’s a beautiful day out there, sweetie, isn’t it?

Bernice: Sure is.

Sandra: I’m feeling blessed. I might even have a cup of wine tonight.

Bernice: A cup? You mean a bowl.

Sandra: I’m gonna watch the season finale of “Dancing With the Stars.”

Bernice: I love that show.

Sandra: I’m gonna cook up some ham, roast some potatoes and make me a little garlic bread.

Guy Behind Me In Line: Can I come?

Sandra: Of course you can, sugar! You get some paper plates and come on over.

Bernice: We have to bring our own plates? What kind of restaurant is this?

The above doesn’t even do them justice, you gotta see them live. That old expression “I could listen to her/him/them read the phone book?” It’s so true in this case:

Sandra: And now we’re on to Smith, John.

Bernice: Sugar, there are a lot of those! You might want to settle in.

Sandra: You’d think their mamas and daddies would come up with something a little more original, like Jared or Kevin. Oh well, pour me a cup of wine and let’s get going.

Now, there is a point to all this and it’s not just to disparage Jonathan, who let’s face it, deserves nothing less than a slow, agonizing death.

It’s to say that as you grow older in life, you start to recognize the areas in which you are a Jonathan, and those in which you are a Sandra and Bernice.

When it comes to being a mom, I often feel like a Jonathan: completely out of my depth.

It’s not because of their conditions. I was a nervous wreck way before they were diagnosed, the kind of mom who checks her kids’ breathing every five minutes and refuses to sleep herself because she has this irrational belief she can stave off SIDS by not closing her eyes.

But their special needs do require a level of calm and parenting confidence I have to work very hard to cultivate.

The Sandra and Bernice in this case would be my two older sisters. I’ll call them JoJo and Polly because, well, why the hell not.

JoJo and Polly are two of the most laid back mothers you will ever meet. To give you a little perspective, Polly has three children under the age of six (the big idiot) and she hasn’t strangled a single one.

I know, right???

JoJo has a teenager who is one of the most pleasant, kind-hearted adolescents you will ever meet, in large part because her mother has given her just the right mix of boundaries and leeway.

Whenever I am having a Jonathan moment as a mother, I call my very own Sandra and Bernice and they walk me through it.

As an infant my son never stopped crying, probably because my anxiety was annoying the s—t out of him. JoJo, who had much more important things to do (namely course work for the master’s degree she was earning from HARVARD, not that I’m bragging), spent hours on the phone assuring me he wouldn’t dehydrate from shedding so many tears and that no, he most likely was not having a stroke.

Polly is a nurse, so she has always been my 1-(800)-OH-SH*T! hotline for medical questions.

This has been especially true with Charlie and her cancer. The morning my daughter’s tumors were discovered, I was caught completely off guard and was in one of my rare “I can handle this” moments.

I mean, yes, my daughter was having an MRI to figure out why she wasn’t hitting all the right developmental milestones for a 16-month-old. And yes, watching your child being put under anesthesia is upsetting. But her brother had undergone the same test at her age for the same reason. The doctors found nothing life threatening and were confidently able to diagnose him as having autism a few months later. As far as I was concerned, the hardest part of this would be the test itself, and then we could go back to normal.

So when I received a call from Charlie’s neurologist a few hours after the scan saying they had found “abnormalities,” I went ice cold with terror. She wanted to talk in person so I called my husband, bundled the kids into the car and then called Polly on my way to the doctor’s office.

“It means cancer, doesn’t it?” I asked in sheer and utter panic.

Polly didn’t lie to me but somehow she kept me from freaking out even more. She is most likely the reason I didn’t crash the car on the way there with my two babies in the back, as she stayed on the line, talking to me in a calm and soothing voice.

It was like she was my big sister or something.

I only found out later that the second she hung up she dissolved into a crying heap on the floor. That she held it together for me is incredibly touching and I will always be grateful.

To be clear here, I’m not saying my sisters are better people than I am. They did glue my hair to the refrigerator once. And they’re not necessarily better mothers. We all have our own gifts and I definitely bring a little somethin’-somethin’ to the motherhood table.

But if there were ever a “Sandra and Bernice” award for calm and confident parenting, my sisters would win it hands down.

Oh, and I’m starting a petition to have the real Sandra and Bernice replace Jonathan on the radio. Care to sign?

llll

Pink with envy

Me, the mom4 Comments

Last week during dinner, my son put his face down on the table, covered his head with his hands and said with a moan:

“Jesus, why did you give me a penis?”

As you can imagine, I was shocked. Not so much by the idea — he often declares he wants to be a girl, usually very loudly in places very public — but I had never heard him so sad. In a moment of sheer stupidity, I focused on the one thing that didn’t really matter.

“Where did you learn that word?” I demanded.

He looked up at me blearily.

“Penis?”

I shook my head impatiently.

“No, Jesus.”

He couldn’t answer that, of course. We live in the South, so Jesus is as much a part of daily life as cockroaches and good barbecue. And it’s no big deal if he knows who Jesus is or wants to pray to him. I just hated to see him so unhappy.

It’s possible my son is transgender. It wouldn’t upset me if he is, not that he needs my permission but he would certainly have my support.

But it breaks my heart to think of him hating the way he is now. He’s perfect to me, the little s–thead. No parent wants to see their child in pain. At least not till they become teenagers and turn into smart-mouthed a-holes.

And in my Lifetime-movie-esque haste to be understanding, I don’t want to overlook the very real possibility that he simply likes things that are traditionally feminine and believes he needs to be a girl to enjoy them.

Pink rocks. Glitter is awesome. Tulle is fun. I like these things, so why wouldn’t he?

When toy makers began rolling out pastel and princess versions of everything, it didn’t bother me. It seemed to me they were responding more to demand than creating it. What I find interesting is how my son — and many other boys, if my mom friends are to be believed — are lapping it up too.

It seems improbable to me that every boy who picks up a Barbie or plays dress-up is transgender or gay. As improbable as every girl who likes trucks and superheroes being transgender or lesbian.

Maybe they just like what they like.

But if he is transgender I don’t want to deny those feelings. (I also don’t want him to think that pink and makeup are the sum total of womanhood, but that’s a rant for another day.)

My strategy thus far has been to ask him, whenever he brings it up, why he wants to be a girl. The answer is usually, “Because girls can be princesses.”

Ugh. The *&%@ing princess thing.

When I ask why he wants to be a princess, he responds:

“Because they are strong and brave and go on big adventures.”

Here’s where Disney comes in. In response to criticisms of princesses and fairy tales being sexist, the entertainment giant came out with a host of princesses who do exciting things and don’t need help from dudes. That they are still totally bang-able is, um, not important right now.

Of course he wants to be a princess. I want to be a Disney princess, too.

This isn’t an indictment of Disney for presenting my son with strong(ish) female characters, or the feminist movement for demanding it do so. As far as I’m concerned, Disney has one job and that’s certainly not to raise my kids. It’s to keep them occupied for a few minutes at a time so I can get liquored up. (Heh, heh. I’m kidding. Seriously.)

And I love me some feminism. Every time I see an episode of Mad Men I want to kiss the feet of every feminist who ever lived.

I’m just saying that because his idols are women, I don’t want him to think there is anything wrong with having man junk.

He’s only six. I have to balance what he can comprehend now with what he will know some day. I almost crossed that line once when he asked if he could become a girl some day and I — in a moment of distraction — said yes.

He looked surprised.

“Like, there’s a magician who can do that?”

“Doctors, actually. You used to have to go Scandinavia — ” at that point I realized what I was saying. “You know what? Just stop talking and eat your mac and cheese.”

Annnnd, because the sands of childhood are constantly shifting, this may not be an issue for long. One minute he’s sad he’s not a  girl, the next he’s furious he isn’t a popsicle.

In the most recent development of this saga, he came home from camp the other day and declared:

“Girls are boring. I’m so glad I’m not a girl.”

Trying not to look too excited — and making a mental note to correct him — I asked why.

“My friend Emily says that. She hates being a girl. It’s so great I am a boy.”

It took every ounce of restraint for me not to shout:

“Thank you, Jesus!”

llll

Me, the momLeave a comment

Project Underblog is featuring my first post, “The Other ‘C’ Word,” on its website:  http://projectunderblog.com.

This is a great site that lets unestablished bloggers like me share their work with a larger audience. I am so grateful for this opportunity.

 

Five reasons Scotsmen make the best husbands

Me, the mom4 Comments

Ten years ago I married a man from Scotland.

I cannot recommend this life choice highly enough.

All of us are shaped by where we grew up, but Scotland imparts some unique characteristics on her sons and daughters, all of which are well suited to that legally binding cage match known as marriage.

First off, please understand that none of what follows is meant to be critical.

I love me some Scotland.

I lived there for four years and loved every minute. It is, without a doubt, the most beautiful country in the world. The people are hysterically funny. The culture is rich, the history is fascinating, the cuisine is…there.

If it were up to me we would move back tomorrow, but my husband — who manages to be a devout Scots patriot while making his homeland sound like Thunderdome — says he can’t deal with the weather.

Here are a few things I’ve noticed about the Scottish over the years:

1) Everyone in Scotland grew up during the Great Depression. (Even if they were born in 1975.)

As a child, my husband’s big Saturday night treat was a dinner of baked beans on toast. He wore shorts in the cold of winter to school.

Scottish children don’t carve pumpkins on Halloween, they carve turnips. On Christmas Eve they don’t leave Santa milk and cookies but whisky. (No one questions how Scottish Santa can drain a dram at every house and still operate a sleigh. Perhaps because whisky to the Scots is like breast milk.)

When I found out that the Scottish Tooth Fairy leaves money under your pillow I was relieved. I assumed she punched you in the face and took off with whichever teeth fell out.

2) Scottish people are really good with money.

The most unrealistic part of the film Jurassic Park wasn’t dinosaurs being brought to life. It was a Scotsman using the expression, “Spared no expense.”

I’m not saying the Scottish are cheap. (Anyone who thinks that should spend five minutes with someone from Yorkshire.) They are simply incredibly gifted at determining financial priorities.

If a real Scotsman had started Jurassic Park he wouldn’t have sprung for the high-end ice cream that melted anyway because the power went out after the computer system crashed. He would have bought the cheap stuff and invested the savings in a better security system so one disgruntled employee couldn’t shut down his operation. He would have known that no one was going to write about the caliber of dessert on TripAdvisor when they’ve just watched a T Rex devour a live goat.

Say what you will about Scottish independence, but if Scotland ever does secede from the U.K., its new budget would be a work of staggering ingenuity.

They would seriously balance the s—t out of that thing.

3) They don’t get unduly emotional.

I once attended a midnight screening of The Exorcist in Scotland. From the audience reaction you would have thought it a musical comedy.

People laughed not only at the special effects — which were admittedly outdated as of 1980 — but at the abundant moments of melodrama. The priest’s tenuous grasp on his faith and doubt over his life’s decisions? Hilarious. The mother’s concern over her daughter’s alarming transformation? A freaking riot.

When the (smoking a cigarette) doctor says, “Mrs. MacNeil, the problem with your daughter isn’t with her bed, it’s with her brain,” I thought the audience was going to collectively wet its pants in laughter.

4) They don’t hate you, they’re just being honest.

When I first moved to Scotland I was constantly checking the bottom of my shoes as I couldn’t understand why all of my social interactions were so cursory.

It took me a while to realize this is just how the Scots are. (And yes, that is a huge generalization as there are some who are effusive. I think.)

They don’t use five words when one will do. While it is seen as rude in the States not to ask everyone how they are — and here in the South you’re a downright dick if you don’t check their blood pressure and ask after their mama — the Scots don’t bruise so easily.

It never occurred to me that American niceties could come across as insincere until one day my friend Martin snapped when I asked how he was.

“You always ask that,” he said. “You don’t really care.”

Fortunately for my psyche, I had long since dialed down my yankee sensitivities.

“I care deeply,” I replied. “Let’s try this again: Martin, you miserable bastard, how the hell are you?”

(He and I aren’t in touch anymore. So weird.)

5) They believe all of life’s little pleasures can go f—k themselves.

My husband refuses to use a clothes dryer. This isn’t for environmental concerns or because he’s worried about shrinkage. (He actually looked surprised the other day when I told him heat can make cotton clothes smaller. The man is 40.)

No, my better half prefers the way clothes feel when they’ve been air dried. First, let me say that fabrics hung in the sunshine and kissed by gentle breezes are lovely. My mom used to hang our laundry outside in the summer and it was the bomb.

But summer in Scotland is kind of optional. The rainy season lasts from June to June, so if you’re going to hang your clothes to dry most of the time it will be inside. This makes the fabric stiff and wrinkly, and you don’t pull the clothes off the line so much as peel them.

Personally, I don’t want my socks to crunch when I put them on but my husband prefers this. It’s like he’s doing penance for sins of which only he knows.

And it’s not just with laundry. The guy only chews half a piece of gum at a time and eats oatmeal for dessert.

Sometimes I’m convinced the entire Scottish nation is the result of a brief fling between stoicism and masochism.

By now you are probably asking what any of this has to do with being a good spouse. All I can say is, isn’t it obvious?

When you’re going to partner up for life, which more often than not can mean hard times and repeated metaphorical kicks in the teeth, you want someone who has all of the above qualities.

You want someone whose past experiences make them appreciate the little things in life, but who also doesn’t require a lot of fancy extras. (I never thought of dessert and clothes dryers as extras, but there you go.)

You want a person who will give it to you straight and doesn’t resort to melodrama when things get rough.

You want a partner who knows his way around personal finances and doesn’t mind eating baked beans on toast for dinner because both of you forgot to pick something up.

Of course, it’s not just the men who possess these qualities, so for all those seeking wives out there, you might want to check out Scotland.

Just don’t bring up clothes dryers. They are the devil’s appliance.

llll

A trip to the farm

Me, the mom2 Comments

My daughter’s special needs preschool class just had its second and final field trip of the year. Like a big fat sucker, I offered to chaperone.

It’s not easy taking special needs kids out in a group, probably because each of them has — special needs. Loud noises, strong smells, even a change in routine can unhinge some of these kids, so I always get the feeling that the teachers shut their eyes and hope for the best.

In the fall, we went to a farm to pick pumpkins and learn about livestock, which didn’t go so well. On our hayride, the noise of the tractor made most of the kids cry and the hay itself caused the ones with sensory aversions to become hysterical.

During the lecture on dairy production, the kids were lined up facing the rear end of a Jersey cow, which made the parents nervous. The guide dragged on interminably and the children became so bored a few began self-soothing by banging their heads against the wall. I wanted to join them but was too busy watching Flossie’s rectum for signs she was about to blow.

We had a great time feeding the goats but then the pigs gave an enthusiastic demonstration of the circle of life — so to speak — and the kids became frantic, thinking they were witnessing some sort of assault. (They kind of were.)

Even more disturbing than the performance was the dad who filmed it on his phone. For what, I can’t imagine. His private collection? A few chuckles on his social media outlets? With whom is he friends that would find such a clip noteworthy or amusing? Mrs. Russo’s all-boy, sixth grade class?

This was followed by a lecture, “From Farm to Table,” in which a guide explained how the food we buy comes from the farm. To demonstrate, she held up a carton of eggs, a quart of milk and — I kid you not — a bag of Doritos, which presumably came from some sort of processed food s**ting species of chicken. Or something.*

By the time we had all recovered from the trauma of our first field trip (roughly six months), it was time for another one.

This time, there were only two parent chaperones, as all the smart moms and dads found excuses to be elsewhere.

The kids enjoyed picking strawberries, although we all could have done with a shorter speech from our guide, who took his work seriously and thought 4-year-olds would be interested in the varieties of strawberry grown in North Carolina.

“There’s the Chandler and the Camarosa. We don’t do the Fern or the Ogallala in this region but we do grow the Sweet Charlie and the Camino Real and the Seascape,” he drawled.

(It was like listening to Bubba Blue in Forrest Gump: “Shrimp is the fruit of the sea. You can barbecue it, boil it, broil it, bake it, sauté it. They’s shrimp-kabobs, shrimp creole, shrimp gumbo.”)

If possible, the children became even less interested when he waxed lyrical about how healthy strawberries were, and he didn’t win any fans among the moms and teachers when he grinned and said:

“Ladies, I bet you didn’t know that one cup of strawberries has only 55 calories! So you can eat a delicious snack without feeling guilty!”

It took all my restraint not to reply, “You know what else has only has 55 calories? My foot up your — never mind.”

After picking strawberries — Chandlers, in case you were wondering — the kids were treated to a hay-less wagon ride.

The owners of this farm had really upped the agritourism ante. Instead of the typical ambling drive around the grounds to gaze at housing developments on the farm’s perimeter, this ride included a guessing game.

The tractor driver played music and told the kids to look for clues as to which movie each song was from. She started with the theme from Indiana Jones, and sure enough, as we pulled out of the farmyard there was a fedora hanging from a fence post.

The kids got into the spirit of it immediately, especially one boy with autism who sat completely still and guessed the name of each movie within nanoseconds of the song playing. It was uncanny.

At first it was fun scanning the landscape for clues. As we passed a crate with MADAGASCAR stamped on it, the song “I Like to Move It, Move it” played. When “A Spoonful of Sugar” came on, we spied a lone black umbrella hanging from a tree.

Then it just got wrong.

“I’ll Make a Man Out of You” from Mulan blared and we passed a Captain Li Shang doll impaled on a stick. When “Touch the Sky” from Brave played we spied a stuffed Merida stapled to a tree trunk.

When I saw a desperate-looking Elsa twirling from a branch while Idina Menzel screeched in my ears, the lovely jaunt around the farm no longer felt so lovely. The dolls seemed like an eerie warning to turn back, and the whole experience called to mind what DisneyWorld would look like if it had been built by an emotionally disturbed 5-year-old.

Twenty-five minutes of music and bumping along in a wagon proved too much for many of the children. By the time we chugged up to our strategic spot next to the farm store — which sold strawberry bread, strawberry muffins and strawberry jam (“…pineapple shrimp, lemon shrimp, coconut shrimp…”) — some of them were starting to lose it.

While the kids were eating their picnic lunch, a woman from another school group approached and asked me in hushed tones, “Is this an EC class?” (“EC” is short for “Exceptional Children,” the term favored by our school district.)

I misheard her, though, and thought she’d asked if they were easy.

“Not really,” I answered. “They all have special needs.”

Once we had cleared up the confusion, she said:

“My sister has an exceptional child. I don’t know how you do it.”

Her kindness was appreciated but a bit misplaced. All day I had only been dealing with one kid and apart from a minor tussle when I wouldn’t let her wash her hands in the Porta John urinal, she had been easy to manage.

The teachers, on the other hand, had been handling two dozen children, all with their own issues and needs. That they make the effort to give these children “normal” school experiences, even knowing how difficult it will be, is very touching.

I’m just hoping next time we can go somewhere a little less sensory stirring. Like a closet.

llll

 

*FYI, I know that Doritos come from corn. I was merely suggesting there might have been a better example.

Hospital food kicks a**: and 4 other things I forgot about life on the children’s ward.

Me, the momLeave a comment

Charlie and I recently spent some time in the hospital, although it wasn’t for anything serious. The poor kid has a hair-trigger gag reflex, which means that the tiniest amount of post-nasal drip can cause her to start vomiting. (She even throws up in her sleep, which is both impressive and unsanitary. It’s like living with Janis Joplin.)

As a result, a little cold can land her in the hospital, as she becomes unable to keep any medicine or fluids down on her own. Last year she was hospitalized five times for colds, so we feel lucky she’s only needed one stay this year.

During her cancer treatments, we pretty much lived at the hospital. Each surgery or round of chemo meant a stay of several days to several weeks. We got to know most of the people who worked there and easily slipped into the rhythm and routine of the children’s ward whenever we were back.

What surprises me when return these days is not how familiar everything seems, but how much I have forgotten. You spend that amount of time in one place and you assume the details will be etched in your memory forever.

But I’m middle-aged and have the memory of a goldfish.

During our recent stay, I was reminded of the following aspects of hospital life:

1. The food is amazing.

Our hospital makes its own pizza and has a sushi bar. A friggin’ sushi bar. On the children’s floor, the staff stashes candy, ice cream and cookies to cheer up the tiny inmates.

If you can get past the fact your child is bedridden in a hospital, it’s kind of like being on a cruise.

2. Someone is always giving you stuff.

People feel really sorry for sick kids and are constantly donating stuff to the hospital to cheer them up.

Within five minutes of arriving last week, Charlie received a board game, a stuffed animal and an Irish Dancing Barbie:

IMG_0792

I think this proves once and for all Barbie really has held every job in the world.

3. Pranks are good for morale.

Time really drags in the hospital, so it’s important to entertain yourself.

Sometimes when an earnest teenage volunteer stops by, I slurp apple juice from an (unused) urine specimen cup.

“Toddler pee!” I’ll say. “Great for the menopause.”

They are usually backing out the door before I can add, “Hey, where are my manners? Let me shake her u-bag and get you some.”

When passing a nurse at a computer station, I’ll say loudly, “Why are you looking at porn?”

They are never looking at porn. They aren’t even browsing eBay or checking Facebook. They are always, always, always immersed in the never-ending purgatory of onscreen paperwork known as patient charts.

Even so, most of them will freeze and then glance frantically at the screen, terrified that dosages and vital signs have somehow been instantaneously replaced by “MILF-aholics.com.”

Not only does this game pass the time, it guarantees the nurses will recommend my kid for early discharge. Score.

4. A little dose of perspective never hurts.

Sometimes, even if you’re only there for a short stay, hospital life can get you down.

When I start to feel sorry for myself, I always encounter someone who helps me get over it stat. (That’s hospital jargon for, “As soon as you finish those charts.”)

Last week it was the cheerful mom in the parents’ room who told me she and her son had been on the ward for eight months.

Nothing makes you suck it up faster than someone who has it worse but is bitching less.

And finally, I was reminded that:

5. People who work in hospitals are much stronger than I am.

During our time on the pediatric floor, I have witnessed doctors, nurses and nurse assistants get hit, kicked, spit on and yelled at.

And that’s just by the parents.

Understandably, not everyone is at their best when their child is ill, and the staff bears the brunt of this anguish with admirable calm.

What I find more astounding than their composure is how they continue to open themselves up emotionally on the job.

Occasionally on the children’s ward, you will hear the keening of a mother whose child has just passed away. There are no words for the agony and sorrow expressed in those cries.

It doesn’t surprise me that nurses and doctors also weep during these times, although it’s touching to know that they care.

What is more incredible is how the next day they will celebrate with a family who has just received good news. They don’t let the difficulties of their job shut them off from joy any more than they do from pain.

It takes an remarkably strong person to do that day in and day out, and the hospital halls are crawling with them.

And not one of them is looking at porn on the job. I swear.

llll

Kate Middleton and I: Birthing Buddies

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I’m pretty sure Kate Middleton wants to be me.

First, the chick followed me to St. Andrews University, where we both met our prince charmings. She got engaged to hers in Kenya — as did I — and we both had royal weddings: hers in front of the Queen of England at Westminster Abbey, mine performed by the King of Rock and Roll in a Vegas chapel.

A few years later she gave birth to a boy — like I did. And less than two years after that she had a girl — also like I did.

Seriously, Kate. You need to back the s—t off.

Alas, if I’m realistic about it, our commonalities are on paper only. Nowhere is this more true than with the fact we have both delivered babies “naturally” in London hospitals.

Much has been made here in the U.S. of Kate’s decision to go the natural route in her labor and delivery. But having experienced a “natural,” midwife-supervised delivery in Britain, I can’t help but feel like Inigo Montoya when he utters his second best line in The Princess Bride:

“You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”

My son’s 22-hour delivery involved the following: an induction of labor, a shot of pethidine, a membrane “sweep,” pitocin, a failed epidural, a steady stream of nitrous oxide to help me pass out between contractions and an episiotomy. The only intervention I didn’t receive was a C-section, not that I didn’t beg for one. That or for someone to kill me.

When it was all over, a beaming midwife leaned over my hospital bed and said, “Aren’t you glad you did that the natural way?”

THE WHAT???

Having just been through the most unnatural experience of my life — and still sporting a righteous buzz from the laughing gas — I was convinced she was a hallucination until she leaned over and stuck me with a needle for a blood test. (They wanted to check my hemoglobin levels. You know, how animals do in the wild once they’ve eaten the afterbirth.)

A British midwife friend later explained that this young woman was referring to the fact that my son used the, um, traditional, or, (DAD, STOP READING HERE) vaginal entrance.

This meant that, despite the interventions, the substances both injected and inhaled, and the slicing and dicing, his would go on record as being a “natural” delivery. And I would get a sash from the NHS saying: “I birthed naturally. Ask me how.” Or something.

Now, we know for a fact — well, we don’t know it’s a fact, it’s just what we’ve been told — that Kate wasn’t induced. (Unless Will decided to grant her the ol’ “princely pardon,” if you know what I mean. Heh heh. The dawg.) And from the term “no recourse to serious painkillers,” we can deduce she didn’t receive an epidural.

But the average British woman has an arsenal of substances — from opioids to the aforementioned nitrous oxide — to help her keep her sanity during the hardest parts of labor.

According to my midwife friend, some do “cross the placenta” but none are considered serious. And because it was claimed that nothing serious was used, as opposed to nothing at all, it’s probable Kate availed herself of them.

As is her right. Trust me, I’m the last person in the world to turn up my nose up at how another woman delivers her own freakin’ child. But it amuses me to know the Duchess of Cambridge might have been high as a kite on nitrous oxide during the worst bits. I doubt she did impersonations of her midwives or said to her husband, “Punch me in the face. I won’t feel it!” as certain women may or may not have done when stoned on laughing gas during their deliveries. But you never know.

I have been told that nitrous oxide is now being used at more natural deliveries here in the U.S., and that is just fantastic as far as I’m concerned. But the American women I know who have given birth naturally used things such as hot water, deep breathing and meditation to help with the pain.

Initially, it bothered me that anyone cared at all how Kate Middleton gave birth. It is, ultimately, a personal decision and a personal moment and she will get so few of those now that she is part of the royal family.

But it occurred to me that this must be a huge deal for the people I know who espouse natural childbirth. Over the years, these women and their partners have received criticism and condemnation for choosing to have their babies at home or in a hospital with as few medical interventions as possible.

To have Kate Middleton, who is so respected and admired, choose to deliver her baby under similar circumstances must be a huge “F you!” to all the naysayers.

No woman should be called stupid or crazy or arrogant for how she chooses to welcome her child into the world.

But perhaps we could be a little more realistic here.

Unless one of the attendants breaks their legally induced silence, we will never have proof that Kate birthed in a hot tub surrounded by gentle deer to a chorus of bongo drums, as so many people seem to envision.

I’m not saying anyone will be writing the tell-all, “The Duchess Barfed Coronation Chicken While Huffing Nitrous Oxide and Trying to Strange Herself With a Curtain Sash,” either.

Although I would totally read that book.

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8 things I’ve learned from children’s television

Me, the mom2 Comments

People keep saying you shouldn’t let television babysit your children. This makes no sense to me. Television can neither cook nor clean. If it can’t keep my kids occupied for a few minutes, why the hell was it invented?

Modern convenience my ass.

For roughly 13 out of every 24 hours my children are wide awake and bored. We play games. We read books. We paint and draw and blow bubbles.

They also have school and occupational and speech therapy and piano and ballet. But sometimes I need to get things done, and if I can’t get them to entertain themselves, I happily call in the cheapest, most reliable babysitter I have found.

As a result, I have learned a lot from children’s television, including:

1. People who write children’s shows understand my kids better than I do.

If someone had shown me an episode of Yo Gabba Gabba and asked if my children would like it, I would have punched them in the face and called them a psycho. That show resembles nothing more than a bad acid trip and features some of the weirdest, most unnerving segments on TV.

My children, however, LOVE it. They find the off-putting characters likable and even the most abstract moments — a child riding by on a giant caterpillar — make sense to them. It’s like going to a modern art installation with someone who knows what’s going on, only you can’t figure out how your kids got schooled in weird.

The appeal of other shows is much more straightforward. A little girl (Dora the Explorer) who can’t control the volume of her voice prancing around with a naked monkey in go-go boots? That’s art imitating life. At our house.

2. Television is a much better teacher than I am.

Yesterday, a single episode of Doc McStuffins taught my children about sharing, infectious disease control and triage.

I taught them that, in a pinch, they could use a gum wrapper to wipe their noses.

I think we know who the clear winner is.

3. There are some subjects television shouldn’t try to teach.

If you want to tell my kids that dragons are real and animals are bilingual, go right ahead. I lie to them all the time too.  But if you are going anywhere near objects or concepts that exist, please be as accurate as possible.

I’m talking to you, Nickelodeon. Thanks to your Creationist-like astronomy lesson on Dora the Explorer, my children thought it was possible for a star to be knocked from the sky by a really fast-moving object. They spent the next week heaving rocks in the air, only to be hit as they came back down.

4. Canada hates parents and wants them to suffer.

There is simply no other explanation for Caillou.

5. Pirates are now good guys. (Except for Captain Hook. He’s still a dick.)

I always thought of pirates as kind of rape-y. And plunder-y. When I was growing up, some kids played “pirates” but always with the idea that they were badass rebels.

But on Disney’s Jake and the Neverland Pirates, they are innocent sweethearts, earnest little urchins with names like Izzy and Cubby who go around helping others and teaching basic math skills. (Seriously, who is in charge of names at Disney these days? A pirate named Jake? A princess named Amber? What’s her kingdom, a strip club?)

It just makes me wonder who children will be looking up to next, a lovable and mischievous Ted Kaczynski teaching phonics?

6. It is possible to be anti-Semitic even when you are dead. Or in the freezer. Or whatever.

It has long been rumored that Walt Disney had, shall we say, issues with the Jews. He may not be penning the scripts anymore — although you never know with him — but the folks at Disney are keeping his legacy alive with a character known as Pete the Cat on Mickey Mouse Clubhouse.

Pete first caught my attention because he is the social pariah of a group that includes a duck with anger issues and a mouse so narcissistic he names everything after himself.

The resident Shylock, Pete operates every business in town except for the Moo Mart, from which he is always trying to steal, and charges the others for things that should be free, such as walking past him on the street. He is often shown counting his money with glee. The rest of them put up with him because they need his services — do I really need to go on?

I should admit that I am particularly sensitive to anti-Semitism, not because I am Jewish but because I’m transJewish. Born and raised a Catholic, I always felt I should have been a Jew, perhaps because most of my friends were growing up.

For one thing, the food. I can’t even.

Also, I have always felt at home with Jewish rituals and traditions, perhaps because a rabbi never handed me a cup of turpentine-grade Chateau des Freres mixed with backwash and said, “Drink it. It’s blood.” (Don’t get me wrong, there are many beautiful and profound elements of the Catholic faith, but at times it can feel like you’re in a 2,000-year-old game of Dungeons and Dragons.)

So, yeah, I’m a wannaMaccabee.  A full-on, save-me-a-seat-in-the-mikvah, challah-back girl. As such, I’m always on the lookout for things I could take offense at if I were an actual Jew. It’s a curse.

7. The folks at Disney have no idea what the word “tinker” means. 

“Tinker” is an incredibly derogatory name for members of the Irish Traveller community — those folks you might have seen on TLC’s My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding.

I know that Disney didn’t come up with the name Tinker Bell, that the character came with the moniker when J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan was adapted for the screen. But she is now a big star in their money-making franchise, and instead of downplaying the racial slur in her name, they seem to amplify it with each new movie or TV show she stars in.

As a result, she is now spewing lines like, “I am a TINKER ! And TINKERS fix things!”

It would be like Snow White shouting, “I am a f—king W-P! And W-Ps get sh-t done!”

Actually, seeing their track record with Pete the Cat, maybe the folks at Disney know exactly what tinker means.

Finally, I’ve learned that:

8. Sesame Street is the best show on television.

For kids, adults, anyone. I would watch it without my children. (And may have done once or twice.)

It will be interesting to see what TV the Babysitter comes up with for my kids as they get older. I’m hoping it will continue to offer me insight into their little psyches, or at least get them off my back for a while.

Gotta go, lots to do. Not that watching my kids is one of them. There’s just a whole bunch of crap on my to-do list that TV can’t help with.

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The interview

Me, the momLeave a comment

It’s been years since I’ve sat outside the principal’s office, but the dread and unease are instantly familiar. For the 100th time that day I smooth the hair from Charlie’s face and paw at her bottom, checking that her diaper is still dry.

My daughter and I are waiting to meet the principal of the most popular magnet school in town, a public Montessori with an excellent reputation.

Four-year-old Charlie is supposed to start kindergarten in the fall, but our local elementary school has a serious bullying problem. Convinced her developmental delays will make her a target, I want her to come here, where class sizes are small and students possess a commendable level of emotional maturity. Because it is a public school, she would also receive help from occupational and speech therapists, as well as special education teachers.

Unfortunately, I’m not the only parent to have picked up on how great this place is. Every year hundreds apply for the small number of kindergarten spaces available.

So far, I have done everything short of performing immoral acts to bypass the lottery that will surely lead to a spot way down on the wait list. (Not for lack of trying, let me assure you. The decision makers in this district are real prudes.)

The fact that she has cancer has swayed no one, we are still subject to the whims of the lottery. On one hand, I get it, they can’t give us special treatment. On the other hand, I wonder why the hell not.

I have scored a meeting with the principal, hoping she will find some magic back door to let us through. Little Charlie, however, has no idea how important the next 20 minutes are. I want nothing more than to grab her and bark:

“Listen, girlie, you better sparkle in there. Unless you want to be picking your teeth up off the playground for the next seven years, turn on the charm and shine. Shine, I tell you!”

Fortunately, I still have a little restraint.

Nothing has been left to chance. I chose her most fetching dress — red with Scottie dogs — and have tied a comically large bow in her hair, just in case the principal likes that sort of thing. None of this was easy. Little Miss insists on picking her own clothes each morning, and I’m supposed to encourage this ridiculousness. She invariably walks out the front door looking like she’s on drugs.

But last night I tiptoed into her room while she slept and removed every article of clothing from her dresser except for said dress and its matching bow. When she emerged clutching them this morning, somewhat confused, I pretended to be surprised.

She has been off chemotherapy for a while and looks radiantly healthy. This worries me.

“Kids with cancer are supposed to look — sick,” I lamented to my mother a few days earlier. “Maybe I should get an oxygen tank she can pull behind her.”

“No,” my mother said, equally as nervous. “You don’t want them to think she’ll be too much trouble.”

Right, I think, no trouble. That means no squatting in the corner and filling your diaper while laughing maniacally, darling girl, which seems to be your favorite pastime these days.

Sources in the special needs community have told me the principal has a soft spot for children like ours, and the year before admitted a little boy with Down syndrome named Paul. Charlie’s middle name is Pauline. I’m hoping to work this into the conversation somehow.

The door opens and Ms. Principal emerges, beckoning us in.

She directs me to a chair and Charlie to a box of blocks on the floor. Build, I urge her in my mind, build like you’ve never built before.

The principal and I discuss Charlie’s history: how she was diagnosed with neuroblastoma at 18 months and underwent multiple surgeries and rounds of chemotherapy. How the tumors are in a holding pattern right now, neither growing nor shrinking. How the doctors are confident that the cancer will slowly die off over the next few years, as can sometimes happen with this type of cancer.

I don’t tell her about my unhealthy need to push every potential obstacle from this child’s path. How I still feel guilt because I couldn’t stop the agony of chemotherapy. How I want nothing more than to come with Charlie to kindergarten every day and hold her hand when she gets scared and hug her when she laughs and mightily pound the tar out of any half-pint who even looks at her funny.

Because I’m guessing the principal would, you know, frown on that.

Charlie wanders over and hugs my knees.

“Mama,” she says, eyeing the principal, “why talk to doctor?”

“She thinks I’m a doctor,” the principal says.

YES!!! I scream inside.

“Of course,” I say, putting on my sad voice. “She has seen so many in her short life, she just assumes this is a consultation.”

The principal shakes her head in regret.

Charlie laughs at something and I’m praying it’s not a full diaper.

“Isn’t she precious,” the principal says, and leans over to look in Charlie’s eyes. “You are a sweet girl, aren’t you?”

Charlie smiles. If I could toss her a fish I would.

“Charlie,” she says. “Charlie — what’s her middle name?”

She asked! She asked! She asked!

“Pauline,” I reply evenly.

Her eyes light up.

“We have the sweetest boy here by the name of Paul,” she says. “He also has special needs.”

I feign surprise. The delight is genuine.

“Unfortunately,” she says, turning back to me, “it’s not up to me whether she gets in.”

Damn. Damn. Damn.

“You’ll need to apply through the lottery like everyone else.”

I hold back barf.

“However,” she leans forward and lowers her voice, “if she doesn’t make it that way, apply for a medical transfer. I will approve it.”

I stare at her. She nods and smiles.

Looking down at my little girl, I feel like collapsing.

In a gesture no more sincere, but infinitely less calculated than any other I have made that day, I start to cry.

He’s no Rain Man

Me, the mom4 Comments

Every now and again, someone will ask, “Is Jack really autistic?” If I weren’t so friggin’ pleasant and well mannered I would reply:

“He’s not. We just enjoyed schlepping him to Sunshine New Horizon Keystone Crossroads Touching-of-the-Good-Kind Therapy five days a week when he was a toddler. The waiting room had battered, sticky issues of ‘Woman’s Day’ from 2007, and you know what a sucker I am for 10-minute dinner recipes.”

Obviously, this question touches a nerve for me, even though it shouldn’t. Most people think of “Rain Man” when they hear the word autism, and that’s just not my son.

Jack looks nothing like Dustin Hoffman. If you dropped a bunch of matches on the floor and asked “How many?” he would eye you warily and walk away. I’ve tried.

He interacts socially with about as much ease as your average 6-year-old, which isn’t saying much, but is probably more than Raymond Babbitt — the real Rain Man — could muster.

What acquaintances don’t realize is that it took years of therapy for him to get here, and that the so-called “social unease” associated with the condition is only one of many ways it manifests.

To be fair, I knew little about autism myself when Jack’s pediatrician suggested he might be “on the spectrum” at his 18-month checkup. It never occurred to me that this could be the reason for his speech delays, or his constant humming, or his tendency to line up alphabet blocks in correct order — from A to Z and Z to A — on the kitchen floor.

When his doctor recommended enrolling him in preschool so he could be around typically behaved kids, I readily agreed. It wasn’t long before his teacher approached me to suggest that he might have autism.

“Yeah, his doctor suspects that, too,” I said.

The times I observed or helped at school, it was obvious his behavior was atypical. Most of the kids ran around exploring and climbing, or hitting each other and screaming. Jack withdrew to the play house in the corner with a book, humming to himself. While most of the kids couldn’t wait to paint with their hands or dig in the sandbox, he sobbed with anxiety if anything remotely sticky or gritty touched his skin.

But even if I hadn’t believed his teacher or his doctor, the changes that came over him when he started an intense course of therapy — including speech, occupational, physical and feeding — would have convinced me. Once you’ve seen a child’s entire demeanor change because you body brush him every day or have him wear a weighted vest, you’re pretty much ready to drink the Autism Spectrum Disorder Kool-Aid.

The first time he agreed to touch Play Doh, I snapped pictures. When he spoke his first sentence shortly after the age of three, I wiped away tears.

Jack continued therapy until the age of five. He still gets regular evaluations to see if he needs more help and we have been prepped in exactly how to encourage typical behavior.

Unless you know what to look for, he comes across as an average kid. Perhaps a little obsessed with machines, numbers and the exact time, but otherwise fine.

So why, if we have pushed him to behave typically, does it bother me if people doubt he has autism?

Because I am a defensive, neurotic mother. Duh.

As parents, my husband and I made a lot of tough decisions regarding whether and how to seek treatment for him. We agreed to an MRI, which involved putting him under anesthesia, which was just a sucky experience for all involved.

We let complete strangers take him out of his comfort zone, often making him cry, in the name of therapy. We have kept a strict daily routine that has friends convinced we are borderline lunatics.

“Would it really make a difference if he at ate dinner at 6 instead of 5?” another mom once asked. Trust me, if you have to ask that, you’ve never dealt with the complete emotional breakdown that comes of messing with a Spectrumite’s sense of order.

So, when someone asks, “Is he really autistic?” what I hear is, “You did all that for nothing,” or, “You are making a big deal out of nothing.” Oh, how I wish.

My husband and I didn’t choose this for him, we accepted it. We didn’t get a free tote bag from the National Autism Society when he received his diagnosis. (I asked. They hung up on me.)

The most you could say we “got” was an excuse for when he does something irredeemably socially awkward. And that is cancelled out by the fact that he has done something irredeemably socially awkward.

When Jack’s autism was more apparent, I was terrified he would be victimized for it. Now that it only comes out here and there, I worry people will think he’s just a weird kid.

In my mind, having autism is nothing to be ashamed of. I’m not gonna go as far as the strange lady who suggested his condition makes him some sort of prophet. The kid thinks the garage door responds to the sound of his voice, so let’s not go nuts.

But just being weird is another story. I was weird growing up. (Hard to believe, right?) It sucked. And like most parents, I devote a lot of energy trying to guarantee that my children avoid the hardest parts of my own childhood.

What’s glaringly obvious is that the only one I can change here is me. I need to acknowledge that the few people who question his diagnosis are probably just curious. If they really do doubt it, I just have to remember what my grandmother always said: “Some people are &%*#ing &%*#wads. &%*# ’em.” (I’m paraphrasing. Sue me.)

Before I sign off, the word nerd in me wants to explain why I refer to Jack as “having autism,” and not “being autistic.”

Long before I had kids, a colleague whose son had autism gave another colleague a verbal smack down for referring to someone as “being autistic.” (Someone who did have the condition, that is. She wasn’t just being a weenie.)

When you call someone autistic, he explained, you make autism their sum total. When you say they have autism, you acknowledge it’s only a part of them.

It’s an interesting distinction and nails exactly how I think of Jack. My son has many characteristics: a curious mind, a generous spirit, strength, stubbornness and, of course, autism.

And yes, I’m pretty damn sure of that, so stop asking.

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