Dora Dora Dora the (Outdated Gender-Stereotype) Explorer!

Dora the Explorer has finally found her way Isaac's House (it's over the shallow river, past the tall church, then you get to Isaac's house! Say "Map! Say Map!"). I've never minded Dora, my niece had a big thing with her a few years back so I'm well acquainted with her program.  Obviously I love that she's a little girl who is always the hero of her own story.  Dora senses the needs of her friends, does all of the planning, the guiding, the saving and helping, all on her own (well, with Boots, of course, but as far as his role goes, he is defiantly a side-kick). There are very few children's programs on air now that even give equal screen time to male and female characters, let alone have a female protagonist that isn't rife with stereotypically feminine traits (conventionally attractive to the point of being "sexy", a nag, in pursuit of a husband/boyfriend/appointment to royal status, or a fairy. Or a princess. Or both). Dora (now, I'm talking just regular Dora, pre-fairyprincess Dora. Fairy Princess Rock Star Dora doesn't factor into Isaac's life. Because she's bullshit), Dora, in general, is fine by me as a television character for my kid to enjoy.

Well, apparently, because Dora is a girl, of course, she is a character for girls. There's like, no way that she can just be a character for kids, according to all the people. Seriously. It started when Isaac decided he wanted cupcakes. I figured we'd make cupcakes and take them to work for our friends. I gave him one of my aprons but it was too big. The next week at the local farmer's market I spied homemade kid-sized aprons. They had some robots and some flowers, but what really caught my eye was, of course, a Dora apron. It is bright pink and lacy but whatever. That's not something that would register for Isaac. He loves his Dora "shirt", as he calls it. He wore it all day that day, wore it to bed, we had to hide it on him in order to get it clean so he could wear it all day again the next day. He wore it to the bakery next door with my niece. Apparently the women behind the counter said things like "what are you wearing? Does your father know you're wearing that?!" I mean, this kid's dad wears an apron to work every day of his life. I guess I wish I were shocked. I wish that a boy child wearing pink didn't illicit some sort of visceral, nasty response in people. He's too young to have understood what they were implying, but Reilly sure wasn't! (Thanks for that, bakery ladies! Certainly a young girl burgeoning on adulthood needs to be reminded of her second-class status whenever she goes to get a bagel!). So we've decided, at my brilliant co-worker's suggestion, to commission a Matt sized Dora apron so the two of them can match next time they go grab a "fuffin" for the kid. If my anger has subsided by then.

Stylin hard with his pockets full of beverages!

So here's what I can't wrap my mind around: (and complete disclaimer here: I am neither an expert in child development nor gender or queer studies, these are just my opinions, gleaned from items I've read and experiences I've had). At two, gender is still very fluid. Isaac doesn't know "boy" or "girl" at all. Like, no concept whatsoever. He calls every child "kid" and I love it that he does. I'm certainly in no rush to make my child fit into any category at all (besides Two-Year-Olds Who Still Don't Sleep Through The Night Ever. Suggestions welcome). So, even if your average bakery worker isn't quite up to speed with child development and gender politics, it's still safe to say that "shaming" my kid (because that's what they were trying to do), isn't alright. He's a child. He's doing his thing, man! He's got a great new outfit to wear on his big adventure to the store down the street, he's happy as can be! It's got pockets big enough to hold cars and his juice! How are you going to come at him with some sort of bullshit like "boys with good fathers don't wear pink aprons"? Not OK.  And for what, exactly, should he be shamed? Because girls wear pink and girls aren't as good as boys? Because if a boy has on clothing that was intended to be worn by a girl, then he may somehow draw the pink ink into his veins and get gay? Because fuck all that. Girls are great! boys are great! trans* kids are great!...Colors are great, aprons are great, hand made items are great and Dora, at times, is great. And wearing a pink Dora apron doesn't infuse gay into your veins. I tried it and it didn't work. Why or how could I possibly care if my child or children were gay? How could that even register on things that would upset me in any way? The truth is, it goes way beyond how Isaac presents himself and identifies himself someday in the future. The really important part of the societal conversation we need to be having is that statistically, he's probably going to grow up a straight, white male, with all of the privileges that are afforded people like him. That is all the more reason he needs to understand that other worldviews and experiences have value. He can be one of two things, in my mind: an ally or a bigot. In our house, we're allies. Every day we have to fight the battle for our children so that one day they will be able to fight it on their own.

I was grumbling about the whole situation to Matt the other night and a real sadness came over me. As I was going on and on about "he's young, colors don't mean the same to him that they do to society at large", I kept adding "yet". Soon enough the world is going to harden around him. Soon enough he will start to get the vibe that girls and girl culture is less-than.  Less than important and less than meaningful. Less than exciting and less than adventurous. He might observe some homophobia along the way. Hatred of trans* individuals is still, unfortunately, a very real thing and likely will still be as Isaac grows up. (Ohmygod, read this blog: gendermom. Hope springs eternal). I won't teach him that kind of hatred and other-ness, his father certainly wouldn't either. It is information that he will absorb, however. He may become embarrassed and deny having worn his Dora shirt. He will blush and protest when I mention that he used to demand that I paint his toenails whenever he saw a bottle of nail polish and that he loved to jump around in my heels. That world is coming for him. It will seep in, through the cracks under the doors, through the advertisements and toy stores, through the off-hand and cruel comments by both his peers and those old enough to know better. That may happen. It may not. My job isn't to change the way the whole world thinks, or even to keep my kids away from it. My role is just to allow the two little people in my house to think better. To think better of each other, of people they don't know, to think better than to make asinine assumptions based in ignorance and hatred. Most of all I want them to be able to think better of themselves, so one day, when they are confronted with bigotry, even in it's tiniest, most micro-aggressive forms, they are able to stand firm on the side of inclusiveness and err on the side of progress.

Let Go and Let Jonah...Sanctimommy at a Standstill

Remember before you had kids, back when you had all the answers, back when you knew how you were going to do things once you had kids? Ah, the good old days. Mine were these ones: No TV til they're like, four years old. No labels or television characters on their clothing ever ever. Gender neutral decor and toys. I will feed them as much organic food as I can afford. Of course, no toy guns or violence. I've managed to stand firm on some of my original plans-- for instance, I do feed them. The other goals are works in progress.

I hate to admit it to anyone, most of all to my Early Childhood Education educated self, but television can be a real help. Isaac's big joy in life is Yo Gabba Gabba! The kid loves it, and keeping him occupied for 22 mins and 34 seconds out of  the day IS AWESOME! (a little YGG reference for ya. No? OK. I'll show myself out). And try though I might to show him that it's OK to play with traditionally "girl" things, like buy him a doll stroller for Raggedy Andy, he is quick to turn the stroller upside down and play with just the wheels.   The few battles I have yet to lose (mostly because they have yet to be fought) are over labels/characters on his shirts-- I don't want my child to be a billboard for The Gap or Marvel Comics. (Star Wars doesn't count, it's a cultural phenomenon. There's a difference). And then there's The Guns and The Violence. (Side note: once, just to see my reaction, Matt told me that he bought Isaac a t-shirt with a picture of Spiderman punching a girl. Of course I believed him and was about to launch into a tirade beginning with "I don't even know where to start!", but then I caught on.)

This isn't the platform to discuss gun control. I will say that I don't really have a problem with responsible gun ownership, it's just not for me or my family. We don't hunt, and I can't imagine what the hell else we'd use a gun for beyond maybe target practice, and that's just not a good enough reason for us to own one. Since we don't and wouldn't use a gun practically, the only way Isaac is going to be exposed to them is through TV and movies (which is why I don't let him watch TV! oh, wait). Since TV and movies rarely show people using guns in a responsible, practical, non-violent way (can't you see it now? "Next, on NBC: Law and Order: Just Plain Old Target Practice and Nothing Else, and later: Regular People Eating What They Kill, For a Sustainable Lifestyle"), I feel that the only way I can provide a buffer for him is by disallowing guns and gun games in the house. Ah, but then I've made a Rule. And you know what happens when you make a rule about Guns in the House? You go to the park, which is not the house.

Jonah and Isaac are park buddies (Names have been changed to protect the innocent, myself, against kids with guns). Jonah is a little older, about 4, and he is always playing guns. Every day he is shooting at something and with something, be it a stick or just his fingers, every day he has a gun. But he's a nice kid! While I cringe every time I hear a "pew pew", I am hoping that Isaac is too young to even notice what his buddy is up to, hoping that all he really wants to do is master the slide the way Jonah has, hoping he's doing anything but noticing that his park friend is shooting him. I can't very well stand up and intervene, can I? My pre-child self would have been all about it. Hell, she'd probably even know the kindest way to say "point that invisible gun at my baby one more fucking time, Jonah, I dare you". It would come out informed-sounding and gentle, like "at our house we don't play guns. He is too young to pretend at something that is the actual cause of death for 500+ children a year in the United States. I know you understand". I'd smile, my long, wavy hair glowing in the mid-day sun. They'd smile, their clean faces the stuff of legend, and they'd go off to play house or boat or maybe even houseboat. There would be sharing and laughter, when it was time to go, they'd hug goodbye and happily leave with their respective guardians...Back on Earth, upon our return from planet Yeah Right, I just freeze in my tracks. Jonah is not my child and I can't very well tell other people's children what is appropriate, and he's not hurting anyone. Plus, I think his grandma could probably kick my ass.



Well today Jonah brought two squirt guns (empty) and a toy crossbow (cause like, why not?). I felt that we were dodging the make-believe bullet, however, because Jonah was already playing with two other kids, and anyway Isaac was too busy doing the slide for real with his dad to even notice the big kids. Wrong! We weren't home ten minutes and Isaac picked up a curtain rod I had taken down and started shooting it! I died a little. I bargained. I told myself that he is just mimicking the noise the boys were making, not the shooting. He would have no point of reference for guns, he's never really seen them anywhere else...So now what? I can't reason with him on this subject. I can't reason with him at all! He's two! Do I actively discourage him from ever playing like that again? Won't that turn into the whole "it's more alluring now because it's forbidden" thing? Do I let it go and hope it won't come up again til he's old enough to listen? When's that? Like, twenty? I am truly at a standstill. I wish I could go back in time, back when I was a legit sanctimommy, back before I had kids and I knew how to raise them.

Someone told me once that boys will always play guns. Or swords. Or Light Sabers.  There will always be some kind of weapon in their play. Sigh. I didn't think it would happen with my kid. I didn't think I would let it happen with my kid. But it has. I suppose I know plenty of really well adjusted people who played guns in their youth. Right?  A few years of "pew pew" on the playground don't necessarily equate to an adulthood of slaughter and mayhem. I am just afraid of normalizing guns and violence, afraid that he will see guns as an everyday thing, and most of all, like Michael Scott doing improv, or Jonah when he isn't ready to leave the park, I'm afraid he'll see them as a means to end any conversation he doesn't want to be having-- both metaphorically, or god forbid, literally. He's got to learn compromise and kindness. I'd like him to have more practice in peace before he learns alternatives that involve force. I'd like to be able to tell him it's time to leave the park without him saying "No! I just shot you".

It is hard when you realize that the parent you want to be is not always the parent you are. You might have a certain vision in your mind about how things are going to go, but reality is always a little different. You may have trouble growing that glowing mane of beautiful hair, you child's face hasn't been legitimately clean in actual months, and every so often you'll let him eat peanut butter and jelly for dinner in front of the television, just to get your damn blog written. I guess the key is choosing your battles and saving your energy for when he wants to wear a shirt with a picture of Spiderman punching a girl.

The Miracle of Birth, Take Two

I feel compelled to write a quick note on the experience of having baby number two, as it was like the delivery of Isaac on Opposite Day. I never thought having a baby could be so pleasant. After a few weeks of hell, I was glad to have a positive experience! About 31 weeks into pregnancy #2, I was diagnosed with hydronephrosis of the kidney, maybe stones maybe not. While I knew what was going on, the entire staff of the hospital seemed to be on planet Don't Care as I writhed and rocked and shook in pain. I wound up in the ER for 7 hours, two of them across the hall from a dead guy, before I was admitted to the maternity floor. The admitting doctor (not my midwife) told the nursing staff that I could take Tylenol for the pain.  I won't repeat what I said to the poor nurse, but suffice it to say, I did apologize to her after being hooked up to an IV drip of something more powerful. Tylenol? Was he serious?! What, were they out of herbs? Like I didn't try Tylenol before coming to the hospital, instead of say, Walgreens, and then waiting around next to a corpse for some relief?! It was the same old routine after that, stent placements, stent exchanges...three in total with Viv, just like her brother.

Unlike Isaac, however, Vivian made her appearnce in quite the opposite way (ok, well not completely opposite, she didn't like, spring fully formed from my skull or anything. That would have been something). I started having contractions at around 10 on Monday night. At about 2 am we went to the hospital, called my mom, sister and my doula to meet us there. I did ask for an epidural after a bit, worrying that I'd want one and it would be too late. I had no other pain relief besides the comforting support of Matt and Darcie.  After the epidural, however, the contractions stopped.  My midwife broke my water, gave me a hit of Pitocin, (which had me extremely worried that I was going to go down the tangled road of increasing intervenion and wind up sliced and diced) and told everyone to get some sleep. This was around 5 am.  45 minutes later the nurse checked me and told me it was time to have a baby.  A few pushes and Vivian was born.  I kept thinking "ugh, I still have to have a baby!" but I didn't! That part was over, and I finally got to make that face I'd seen on other women as their baby arrived-- to experience that feeling, to reach down and grab my newborn and smile. Joy.

So what was different this time? This time around, I educated myself. I read Ina May and imagined what it would be like to give birth on her farm. I followed birth blogs, especially Birth Without Fear, which is really just about sharing, supporting and empowering women in all of their birthing experiences. I brought my husband in on my thoughts by sitting down and watching The Business of Being Born. At this point, we both knew that a home birth was not in our future (kidneys!), but it helped us both to see one natural, un-medicated, peaceful experience after another. But the biggest changes I made for myself were with who I chose to care for me. I switched from my OBGYN to a midwife. The women at my new practice were awesome. Every single visit I was met with upbeat women who really seem to enjoy their work.  They liked me, they respected me, the empathized with me, they had my back. When I lost it and broke down in tears, in such pain between stent surgeries, my midwife, Erin had a plan.  The thing that had worried me the most, the thought of being induced, was cleared up in moments. She was matter-of-fact but gentle, she told me what to say to the urologist, she assured me that induction was not going to happen unless I was sure I really wanted it. At my former practice, I felt like my kidney problems were wholly separate in my OB's mind, like they had no real understanding of the depth of my fear and inexperience. At Birth n Beyond, I felt like I was part of a team.

Another huge part of my team was my doula, Darcie. Talk about someone who has a calling! She's a hugger. Anyone who knows me well will notice that I am not a huge hand-shaker or hugger. She's the kind of person, however, who I did not hesitate to hug upon first meeting. She is warm and kind, she listened to all of my fears and concerns and gave equal weight to every last one of them, big or small. Having her to bounce ideas, worries and fears off of kept me sane. I felt so much more confident even just having her in the room as I labored. Something about her presence reminded me that every contraction would eventually end, that I would be able to get through it, and that each one brought be that much closer to being done. Anyone considering hiring a doula should absolutely do it. I cannot say enough kind things about my experience, it was one of the best decisions I have ever made.

Contrary to Isaac's entrance into the world, Vivian's was so much more peaceful, so much more joyful, and made me feel so much stronger. I have always been amazed at my body's ability to give birth, or even grow a baby, but I was so frustrated with what I perceived to be failures. I failed to push Isaac out, I failed to nurse him right away, I failed to heal well after his birth and I failed to ask for help when I needed it most. I feel like Viv's birth was a do-over. Not only was I able to experience something much closer to my ideal situation, but I was able to reflect on the past two years and start forgiving myself. I didn't fail Isaac. I was in over my head, I was not fully prepared. His birth left me exhausted and overwhelmed, and that is OK. I am not a villain. I was just a person doing something for the first time. Hear arrival helped me bring down some of the walls I'd built.

A lot has changed for me. I can't seem to keep my mind off the backward way we bring babies into the world in this country. Viewing birth through a medical lens is so unnecessary. Unless there truly are problems that require a doctor's intervention, why are we so set on having surgeons deliver our babies and care for us prenataly? Midwives are the shit and should be our first thought when we're pregnant. We are taught that labor is the worst thing ever to happen and that it should be feared and medicated "away". We are led to believe that screaming in terror and agony are par for the course, that laying down on our backs is how babies come out easiest and that doctors and nurses know best when it comes to our own bodies.  I'm here to tell you that giving birth without a drug cocktail was significantly less painful and frightening that it was with drugs. I was so present this time, so much more in control. Fear is unnecessary if you trust your body and your care team, and when your care team trusts you and your body, the work of baby-having gets done. I mean, it's not easy and it sure does hurt, you know I don't lie about that nonsense. But the pain makes sense. After both of my experiences I would never poo-poo an epidural, if that's what a woman wants. If I were to have another baby, however, I would like to try to go all the way without any intervention.  That's not going to happen though...I'm tapping out.  Hydronephrosis of the kidney has scared me off the whole pregnancy thing altogether and I am getting out of the baby making game.  I won't miss it either! While it is transformative and amazing, on the best days, it is rough going and requires a lot of a person. Being done is bitter-sweet, but I can now concentrate on these two kids-- I have my hands quite full with them!

Busman's Holiday

Am I the only mother out there who feels like Mother's Day is a big load of crap? Literally (more on this later). Listen, I understand the sentiment behind the whole thing, and I want to clarify that my "kids" (husband) did all the things. I got chocolate for breakfast, mimosas for lunch, beautiful flowers, a trip to T.J. Maxx alone, and an entire meal without holding or persuading a child to eat. My issue isn't from within the home, my gripe is with the practice of the holiday in general.
If anyone had asked me what I wanted for Mother's Day, I would have said: a clean bathroom, a martini, and going to see The Great Gatsby alone. Or maybe with other adults like my sister and mother. We tried to plan a day like that, but all of the children and husbands cried "No! you're supposed to spend time with your children on Mother's Day!" Oh, am I? You mean I get to spend the day doing what I do the other 364 days a year?! What a fantastic idea! That is exactly what I need on a day meant to celebrate and thank me for all of my mother-ness.  More mothering! Mother's Day should be a day off. I know many women who were treated to breakfast in bed (my favorite being my sister-in-law, who was greeted with this *amazing* treat.

At least her kids didn't try to cook. Many other mothers were posting pictures on Facebook of their sinks full to the brim with Breakfast In Bed pots and pans. I bet my sister-in-law even had to recycle her own yogurt container. I know that I personally did two loads of laundry and changed one of the most disgusting diapers I have ever encountered (and it wasn't the one that leaked all over my bed at 6am). I also woke up with spit-up in my hair. While being treated to my favorite meal of Fettuccine Alfredo I also got to nurse in public, which I enjoy about as much as jogging outside or wearing a bathing suit... ever...I'm not shy, I just hesitate to engage in any activity that displays my lumpy parts to strangers. Isaac threw his spaghetti all over the room and washed his hands in my glass of water. Bedtime was its usual hellscape of screams and tears, all of which I tried in vain to ignore and so I could watch Call the Midwife in peace. I fell asleep before Mad Men, realizing right before I drifted off, that I forgot to change the sheets.

I'm not complaining-- the day had several wonderful moments that made me realize how happy I am to be a mother, and how proud I am to be a daughter. I got so many warm and loving messages from friends and family, my co-workers, and I even purchased a new pair of shoes. What I would like to point out, is that besides having sassy new wedges and booze for lunch, Mother's Day was just Day.  I changed as many diapers as usual, did as many loads of dishes and laundry, and said just as many prayers to the Goddess of Toddler Sleep as I usually do (ten million).

Here are my suggestions for improvement. Feel free to add your own. Mother's Day should be a day when mothers are shooed away from their homes.  A macaroni-glued card should be on the table next to her car keys, and in it should be a Dunkin' Donuts gift card. Or not. I have three bucks, I got this. Just don't leave me your crusty egg dishes. Target, Barnes and Noble, Jo-Ann Fabrics, all of those places that are going to be open anyway, should open early and have a no-kid policy. I want to shop in peace. I left my kids at home, you leave yours, too. Movie theaters should offer discounts on films that do not feature talking animals, vampires, plucky princess with abusive step-mothers, or explosions. I want to leave the theater in full-on tears, having watched a period drama on its first run. One that might be nominated for an Oscar, one that I had to make exactly zero compromises to see. One with accents and complicated story lines. I want to see a good movie, just once, before I have to wait another 5 years for it to come on Netflix, because by the time it gets there I never remember. I never remember. After the movie I want to go out with a few other mothers for a quick glass of wine, a spicy appetizer, and then home to more quiet and some AMC dramas that start at a reasonable hour. Like 6.  Is that too much to ask? Yeah, probably.

No one of us parents has it easy.  That isn't to say that parenting isn't wonderful and rewarding.  It's just that not-parenting for a day would certainly have its own merits, Amirite? So next year we're doing it: my sister, mother and I are leaving home for the day and doing what we please, sorry kids! We love you real bad, and sometimes we need a day away to remember just how much.

Bring On The Krampus! Or At Least Channel Your Mother

It is too late to to make it this year, but if you would like to become your mother, your own beloved mother who, at holiday time, became an unreasonable ball of stress that your family feared and avoided, I have developed a plan that will have you stomping around and giving your loved ones the silent treatment in just three easy steps.

1. Have a child
2. Have a holiday
3. Attempt to do anything at all

It really is that simple, folks!

Last Christmas was Isaac's first and we spent it at Matt's parent's house. The kid was still a baby so he didn't know, or care, what was up with all the presents and house-trees. Our biggest concern was getting to our destination and back on an airplane without being that family with the baby (we were, that family, FYI). Traveling was nice because we had to pack lightly, we were given a reasonable amount of reasonably sized gifts that would fit into an overhead compartment, Isaac was still nursing, so when things got rough we would slip away into a quiet room for some down time...we were awash in new-parent ignorance, and it, as they say, was bliss.  This year...oh this year. This year we stayed home, and we had to face the music.  The music coming out of every toy train, every singing Christmas ornament, piped through every store's sound system, and sung by the angelic church choir-- obscured of course by the whining of an over-tired 18-month-old in a necktie. I don't remember the exact words, but the refrain was something like "Christmas sucks, Christmas sucks, I hate you Christmas time..." sung to the tune of jingle bells. Sure, we didn't have to fly, but nothing about this holiday seemed reasonable. Least of all, me.
On Christmas Eve, Isaac and I went to pull our 4 o'clock shift at the church nursery for the early family mass.  Ike went down for a nap at 3, because of course. When I had to get him up we proceeded to have our tenth "argument" of the day over, of all things, his shoes.  This kid sleeps in his shoes when we let him.  If we somehow manage to get him to the crib without them, he wants them on as soon as he wakes up.  Matt and I have to be shod at all times or else he cries.  Flip-Flops seem to bother him, I suspect because they aren't real shoes. Boots are the best, in his opinion, and he often tries to wear more than one pair of shoes at a time.  On Christmas Eve, however, fifteen minutes before we have to leave the house, he won't put any shoes on. Not new ones, not old ones, not mis-matched ones, not slippers or sneakers. "Nununununu", he said, shaking his head at me.  "Fine!" I finally said, tossing his new, awesome and matching shoes to the side, "but I'm leaving this house in five minutes and you can either put your shoes on and join me, or you can stay home alone and wait for Daddy.  I'm going to call Santa Clause and tell him to take all of your toys back". He is EIGHTEEN months old.  He doesn't know a) how to put his shoes on or, b) what 5 minutes means, I could or would never leave him alone on another floor of the house, let alone home alone, I don't know Santa's number, and even if I did there's no way it would matter because the kid has ZERO point of reference when it comes to the "naughty or nice" element of the popular tale. But the words were out there, I stood my ground.
This was the transformative moment for me.  I felt the sweet release of the Mom frustration, the end of the anger pile-up that began the day after Thanksgiving and was just building to a foaming, frothing boil. The gifts were wrapped in color-coded paper, labeled in complimentary home-made tags, the tree was perfect and twinkling and even still alive, I was dressed in something that didn't pull or itch or make me look like a blimp, I had heels on-- I didn't care anymore if his shoes matched his goddamned tie, or whatever, and I didn't care if he didn't like how things were going down.  He was going to wear that damn tie, the sport coat, and the new shoes.  He didn't have to like it, he didn't even have to stop whining about it, we just had to LEAVE. And we did! I felt like Bunny when she meant business. I felt the power of not giving a rat's ass if the kid thinks you're the wicked witch or the not-fun parent. I was Krampus, stuffing the kid into a sack, and I was high on that power for like, ten or fifteen minutes.

 It was awesome. Of course, things went downhill from there, but whatever.  There were no kids in the church nursery so we went through all that for nothing. We ran back home to help Matt make a dip that we forgot to even serve, made it to my parents at 6:00 to sit around and wait for the tenderloin to cook for 2 more hours,  Isaac cried 90 times and was a clingy, whiny mess due to the sheer amount of stimulation and attention he was receiving from the twenty-plus guests, the adorable outfit I fought with him over lasted about an hour before it was covered in hors d'oeuvres to the point of being un-wearable, he wouldn't eat dinner but was content to suck on cookies instead, and I am pregnant and was therefore sober.  Dreadfully sober. And my feet hurt in those heels but of course I couldn't tell anyone and blow my "no big deal, I'm easy-breezy fashion mom" cover. We went home and collapsed at about 9, Matt and I saying to each other "fuuuu, it's only Christmas Eve. There's still more", before rising to play Santa for another hour or so (and not in a fun way. In a "where did you put the tape? Oh here it is, wait, it's empty, are we out of tape? Like OUT out? Or just out of this one? Are you even listening to me?" way).
I learned a few powerful lessons this year.  First, I learned (for the millionth time), that I was nowhere near good enough to my mom.  No wonder she never really seemed to get all gooey and Christmas-y the way moms in the movies do! She had to do all the same stuff I did on Monday, but with two more children, and host dinner at her house (and an event at Bunny's house is no small feat.  We're not talking about lining up for the buffet with paper plates here.  She's got all the china, all the silver, a million candles, cloth napkins starched to perfection, she cooks the dinner, cleans the house before and after, preps the bar and still manages to be an impeccable hostess throughout. Oh, and this year she had to go to work afterwards. Bunny wouldn't like to hear me blaspheme like this, but Martha Stewart should seriously be honored to kiss my mom's ass when it comes to putting on a dinner). Never will I ever be able to express how much I have taken my mom for granted over the years. Christmas With A Child #2  just crystallized it for me.
Also, I learned that Santa Claus is there for a reason.  I have heard some parents say that they feel uncomfortable "lying" to their children about who brings them presents.  To this I would like to say "fuuuuk that". I understand now why we have to invoke a higher power: because kids don't listen. They really don't care in the slightest if you are late or early, over tired or stressed, they could give a shit if you, the mom, need them to listen and respond right now.  Kids are jerks. What they do care about is the promise of toys and the magic man who brings them.  Isaac is even too young to understand this white lie, but boy did it feel good to hurl consequences like "no toys! Ever!," even if they fell on deaf ears.  They won't next year Ha Ha! But seriously, your children know you work hard.  They get it, they see you leave the house, they know when you are away.  You don't have to make it so aggressively clear that you are the one buying all those Christmas presents with your hard-earned money, the same money that stresses you out when the heat bill is due or you have to pay the sitter. There are 364 other days in the year to talk about work.  Let Santa have this one, let the little ones believe that being good children has a reward that is really special (beyond their mother's not eating them alive or putting them on Craig's List under the "Free" heading). And besides, do you remember when you figured out the ruse? And do you further remember how long you pretended to still believe, for your parent's sake? I said that kids are jerks, but I never said they are dumb.
I learned that white sweaters are adorable, yes, and fashionable to boot, but are best saved for a time when your child is asleep or far, far away, lest the gift from your stylish sister-in-law become one big napkin upon which your toddler will wipe his pepperoni-covered hands. 
Lastly I learned that Christmas is a particular kind of hell reserved for those who have a life outside of decorating, shopping, and the Elf on the Shelf (don't get me started). For parents who work--in or outside the home, for those for whom just keeping the kids alive and the house from burning to the ground for another 24 hours IS the job, for those of us who get to December 22nd and suddenly think "Ahhh! The world didn't end! Christmas!", the holidays are just one more damn thing we want to do, one more thing we want to do really well. We would like nothing more than to be festive and chipper and dressed in red. We want to be the kind of people who bake 15 dozen cookies and host theme-parties. Sure, we want all that. Just not enough to actually DO all that. For us normals, just getting our kids to wear shoes and not sneeze on the elderly is the best we can arrive at. The stomping around, the empty threats, the silent treatment-- those things are all for us. They are little surprise stocking stuffers we give to ourselves at the end of a hectic month. We earned them, so let's enjoy our fits! I didn't know how she'd take it, so I hesitated before telling my mother about my "Bunny Moment" on Christmas Eve. I didn't want her to be hurt.  When I finally came clean and told her that I had become my mother, she asked me "was I awful?" To which I laughed and replied "No! Not at all! You were a mom!".

WWBD? What Would Bunny Do? (Ella Ella Ella)

I had my 20 week ultrasound last week, everything is in its proper place, it seems, the heart is pumping properly, baby kidneys are functioning, 10 fingers, 10 toes, and after a few moments of struggling with a stubborn and comfortable fetus, the ultrasound tech was able to see that we are likely having a baby girl this time.  A girl baby is not as easy to say with certainty, all we know is that there are no testicles.

Now what? I don't even know where to begin.  I'm a huge player in the cult of the girl.  I was a Girl Scout longer than it was cool (wait, it was cool at one point, right?), I went to an all girl's high school and an all women's college.  I have been a feminist since before I knew there was a special word for it, eat sleep and breathe all things equality, mostly with the well being of women and children first and foremost in my mind. I have always imagined having a daughter of my own. Maybe because I was a girl, it is something I can relate to. I have never been a little boy (although, please, do your gentle hearts a favor and go listen to "When I Was a Boy" by Dar Williams when you're done here [sentimental cry face]. If you don't get a lump in your throat, then you need a hug as big as life itself. Carry on).

 Maybe I want to replicate and see from the other side what it was to be my mother.  Those formative moments stick to my memory-- the time she told me "girls can be whatever they want to be when they grow up", and I challenged her.  I thought it over and remember thinking "ok, I've got it.  Girls can't be firemen and boys can't be cheerleaders". Bunny was not having any of that, and corrected me.  Then, I remember, argumentative as ever, telling her that I knew girls could not grow up to be dads (Funny, how my 'gotcha' moment 25 years ago is now my jumping off point today. Like HELL girls can't grow up to be dads! I know of plenty of little girls who grew up to be great dads). The finer points of gender identity aside, my mother never let me think of myself as "just a girl". I want to feel the pride my mother must have felt when she finally knew that feminism "clicked" for me, when she knew there was no going back. But can I carry on that legacy? Can I promise to challenge every stinky, stupid stereotype I see, in language my daughter will understand? Will I get lazy and give in when Cinderella comes seeping in through the cracks in the doors, bringing her sister-princess along for the ride? Will I tarnish every viewing of my own beloved The Little Mermaid by asking Girl Baby if she really thinks trading one's voice for the pursuit of a love interest is really the healthiest way to start a relationship? Can I just let her enjoy the simplicity of Disney's rigid gender roles? Will I force her to play with Isaac's tool bench trough the denial of a pair of glass slippers,  or  maybe she will just gravitate toward it anyway? What did my parents do? Well, they built me a Barbie house of my own, if that's any indication.  I guess I'd better dust off my old tool belt (just kidding, I don't have one.  Eek!).


As I grew older, my mother never shied away from talking about the realities of pending adulthood.  Not one to mice words, the phrases I remember her dishing out most frequently were "They all look the same upside down", referring to how many men view women, and that men's brains react to beautiful women the same way they react to money and cocaine.  She kept it real, these lessons started around sixth grade.  She wasn't being a misogynist or man hater, she just wanted to make sure I remembered myself as I became an adult.  She was warning me that as I aged I was going to encounter men who do or say anything for sex, that I would find men who wanted to collect, own, control and possess me in the same way they wanted to win money or get high. She didn't want me to consider, for one moment, that fairy tales came true-- or even happened. She wasn't a dream crusher-- she wanted her daughters to have dreams about something other than boys. No daughter of hers was going to be looking for a mythical knight. Not when she had outfitted us in our own armor. (Worth mentioning that we did read a lot of fairy tales.  The Grimm's versions.  Eyes gettin' pecked out everywhere.  Also, we began to receive condoms in our Christmas stockings somewhere around 17 or 18. Like I said, she kept it real.  Real uncomfortable!) With all this as my jumping-off point, I love to think that I am going to be the most sex-positive mom out there.  The fact bringer, the truth teller.  I will be body positive, careful not to shame myself or others, I will be a crusader for my children in the complicated realm of adulthood. I will shield them from the hyper-sexualized world that seems to start around age six these days, I will let them ask questions and be honest with my answers...I think.  Until I watch an episode  of "Friends" with one of my nieces, and squirm when something remotely sexual comes on. Do I say something? Do I ignore this situation or explain it? Does she even notice that this is adult content? Am I doomed to eternal awkwardness for ever and ever into eternity? Is she old enough for this talk yet? It's certainly not my place to have the 'big' talk.  Is that even still a thing? Does she have questions? How will I know if I don't ask? She needs you to be a role model, Sarah, get it together! ok. So then I go "this seems a little mature for us to be watching right now" and turn to something like the Disney channel or maybe suggest we go make popcorn. Cool aunt fail. In this realm, I need more practice. I need more guts.  I need more Bunny B.

I've been doing this all week.  Back and forth.  I want to buy a cute "girl" outfit to celebrate our news.  But...should it be a dress? Should it have pink? Ruffles? It won't say "princess", that's for sure, or have writing on the rear (so help me GOD, if any daughter of mine...). What color for the nursery? Gaah! This poor babe is going to wear nothing but white onesies and live in a colorless void, all due to my inability to make a decision! I try to remember that I turned out to be a pretty ardent feminist in spite of wearing a dress now and again, playing Barbies and having a room decorated with flowers. What would Bunny do? This is the umbrella that covers me in moments of crisis, of doubt and in times when I just need a shove in the right direction.  What would Bunny do? Have a Manhattan and...probably encourage me to go read a book.  I can accomplish half of that, I suppose.  Now if I could only find a book...


 What really amazes me about my mom is that she was able to be a strong role model for me without the umbrella of her own. My mother lost her own mom when she was only thirteen years old.  As I age, in a way, I bring the shadow of Bunny along with me. "By this age, my mother was (getting married, had two kids, was working on her masters, had a perm, wore shoulder pads)" what have you, "all without her mother". Every time. Without her own mother's hand to guide her, she managed to raise us all.  With only the memory of Louise to answer her when she asked "how would my mother handle this?", she got through it. How fortunate I am to have someone so wonderful to turn to, while she had her mother only as a reference. Half an umbrella on what certainly must have been some rainy days.


 We all must wonder if our parents are proud, if they are satisfied with what we have done with the gift of life they have given us.  I didn't realize until I was a parent that it works the other way around: I'm just thrilled for the gift that the children have given me by existing.  They can do whatever they want with their lives. With that mentality, I, my mother,  and surely her mother, set about parenting.  We all teach our children how we value them, and how they should value themselves.  I suppose I will let the tool bench sit and hope it gets as much use as the Barbie house.  I will consent to Cinderella, on occasion, but not without letting my feelings be known. No pink Lincoln Logs shall pass over my threshold, however, nor shall a professional wrestling match be viewed. Grandparents and over-zealous girlfriends can offer her the tulle alternatives to the overalls I provide.  She can sweet talk her dad into her first pair of fancy shoes. I know how those things go, Girl Baby, for I invented those moves, and  my job is not only to be your mom, but it's also to be your Fairy God Feminist.  Sorry,  but I must stay the course.  For you.

Does Anyone Want To Talk About *gulp* Homebirths?

Of course you do! And I only kind of do.  I mean, I think.  I'm getting a little hot and sweaty just typing this, but lets just go with it, shall we?  So, I'm knocked up again, it seems.  I like to use "knocked" because it annoys me to call it anything other than what it is, a happy accident of nature.  I've discussed this before in previous posts, but I will mention again that I can be very squeamish and prude when it comes to some things (obviously not all things, I blog about birth and pregnancy), and I don't like to walk around like getting pregnant was any great accomplishment of mine.  It really only takes a few bottles glasses of wine, it seems, so lets save the hi-fives for when this version is out of me.  As I've said, that's where the real work is.
 So here we are again.  Me, a fetus, and a whole wide Internet full of things to worry about until Isaac wakes up from his nap (which, god willing and the creeks don't rise, will be a two-hour deal today)-- And before I get started, let me just say that home birth is something I'm thinking about. Don't send me 800 links to advocacy sites-- or scary "warning" ones, either. Also, I like you, but I don't want pictures of your home birth in my inbox, nothing against your placenta or anything. And let's keep in mind that the Sarah who is hastily writing this before the door of Nap Time Freedom slams shut on me once again, is the same Sarah who will request a Vicoden for a paper cut, has complete resentment for my oral surgeon for removing my wisdom teeth--6 years ago (I even hate waiting on him. Flashbacks), and in general, is as opposed to general discomfort as one human can possibly be.  Princess and the Pea level of pain-aversion. I am also the kind of person who will congratulate herself for sticking to a week-long vegetarian diet, only to look down on day 3 and realize I'm eating a bacon cheese burger. Or will make plans to build a houseboat, but fail at even building a bench.  The same Sarah with 5 colleges and twice as many majors under her belt with only one degree to show for it...For me,  thinking about committing to something that is 5 months away and actually doing it are two different things, two different Sarahs.  So don't worry yet, Mom.

But, as we have learned from previous experience, the baby does eventually come our, one way or another, like it or not. That is where pregnancy differs from houseboats.  It will come as no surprise to those who read my post about having Isaac that I suffered a little bit of what is called Birth Trauma.  I left the whole experience feeling like a failure.  All that work, all that pushing, all those swear words, and I still couldn't get him out.  I was torn in ways that really frightened me and made it so, so hard to be a new mother. I was afraid of my own body for months.  Months. I reverted to some sort of catatonia at follow-up appointments, unable to really express how shitty I felt about Isaac's birth- I didn't think I was allowed to feel that way. What, was I going to turn to my Doctor and be like "you really could have done better in there. I had no idea what I was doing and you made me feel like a child!"? She would have looked at me like "who are you, again?".  Of course it sucked.  It's having a baby, for gods sake. What did I expect? Awesome-ness? Well, it turns out, there are ways to experience birth differently.  There are woman who use words like "happy" and "blissful" and "empowered" and "not so horrible I swear I'll never have another child again, just sew me shut now and lets get the fk out of this hospital so I never have to even think about this even one more time". Maybe I'd like to be one of those woman this time.  Perhaps my days of being a scared little girl are behind me.  I'd like to stop feeling like asking anyone who was there "did I do OK? Why was that so bad? Why do I feel like I did it wrong?" I'd like to see a stronger side of me bringing my baby into the world.
So why not just an unmedicated birth, then? Well. Have you ever been to a bar, wanted a dirty martini, up, with 2 olives, but just went with tap water, no ice, instead? Really? Cause I never have.  There are lots of metaphors about temptation out there, and I fit them all. I find it difficult to imagine the Sarah I know in hospital full of pain-relief interventions and not take each and every one (except the one that made me trip balls). Those nurses are pushers! Lovely, well meaning, supportive and knowledgeable, yes, but pushers just the same.

Nurse: Sarah, want some dru-
Me: YEP.

I know myself. I know that given the choice, I would be way more likely to give birth in a tub in my living room than say no to an epidural.
So now we've talked about it.  Well, I have talked a little about it to a computer screen. If anyone has any stories, I'd love to hear them (but please, please don't link this page to a forum where those mean OB nurses can comment on this birth decision, too.  I couldn't take that again!)  It seems from  what I hear from the few women I know who gave birth at home, none of them regret the experience, or feel traumatized.  I, however, do know many who felt very negatively about their hospital births. That piques my interest-- but as I said-- that is all.  I didn't order a birthing tub, I haven't contacted my insurer or midwife about it (um, or even Matt), and heck, the kidney stones haven't even kicked in yet! I'm sure they'll come along to ensure that I am tethered to each and every intravenous tube the birthing center has to offer! And also, I imagine that having the baby at home would require me to clean up a little around this dump - and we all know how I feel about that!