Sugar and Spice

Mother Goose once told us that young females are comprised of “sugar, spice and everything nice” but I beg to differ. At age four, I was fairly certain that my daughter K.C. was made up of “screeches and pouts and ferocious, mad shouts” instead. She went from an infant who was colicky for her first six months to a whiney, defiant young waif who ruthlessly nagged me for hours on end.

I know what you are thinking – If she were YOUR kid you’d put a quick end to THAT behavior. Yes, I used to look at other misbehaving children in the supermarket and think the same thing. Jacob was so easy-going and well-behaved and prior to K.C.’s arrival I was certain I must be quite the successful mother. All kids go through the “terrible two’s” or even the “terrible threes” in one way or another, but with Jacob I was always able to redirect poor behavior by starting a game of “who can find the Cheerio’s” or threatening to take a favorite toy away.

I once applauded my parental prowess and patted my own back on more than one occasion for never allowing whining, temper tantrums or the like in my home or in my presence. I now know that what I thought was good parenting was simply a good combination of personalities in a child/parent relationship. K.C. swiftly and methodically showed me what a great parent I was not.

I have never allowed whining or responded to requests in that voice that hits the eardrums like fingernails on a chalk board. That’s the number one rule, right? I used to believe that if a parent did not respond to or reward whining, the child would stop. Jacob probably tried whining twice, and when he realized it did not work, he stopped and hasn’t tried it since.

I also was under the incorrect assumption that children learn to speak from their parents and will imitate parental tone and inflection. For whatever reason, the tones emitting from my middle child resembled more of a squeaky door hinge than a human voice. Where had I gone wrong, and why did she continue to use this “voice” though every time she was made to repeat her requests in a “nice” voice?

I believe this particular whine comes from the cellars of Nature vs. Nurture. In this case, Nature is the main influence. I did not whine as a child, nor did my siblings. I do not tolerate whining as an adult, yet my daughter proved to me time and again that she is not me. She did not think the same way I do nor did she respond to threats the way I might have responded at age four.

I was always quite a tomboy. I loved stuffed animals and Hot Wheels cars, but had little use for dolls or makeup. In fact I was given a Barbie doll on my fifth birthday. I did find some use for her… I took her legs off and used them as tent poles for GI Joe’s campsite. Barbie legs also make good obstacles for toy horses to navigate in imaginary horse shows.

K.C. seems to be much more of a “girlie-girl” than I ever was or will be. I do wear makeup to work and for social occasions, but never if I am just hanging about the house. K.C. has seen me put on my makeup and at age two started asking for a drop of lip gloss every now and again. By her fourth birthday she had more makeup than I do, yet she was still far more interested in MY makeup than her own.

Having received two sets of makeup for her fourth birthday, we had already had a number of minor mishaps. A large hot-pink stain appeared on the carpet in her bedroom, and her psycho-gene was already showing up in obscure lipstick messages on the bathroom mirror. As a result, I decided to put her makeup in a “time out” for a few days.

One Saturday afternoon, it occurred to me that it had been quite some while since I’d had my four-year-old hanging about my ankles. As it was not her nature to entertain herself for more than a few minutes, I set off to find what she had gotten into. As I peeked into my own bedroom, I heard some quiet noises from the master bathroom.

I knew if I made my presence known, I would be met only with a wildly guilty look and I might never know whose toothbrush she had been scrubbing the toilet with. Instead, I snuck quietly to the bathroom door and peeked through. There was my little pumpkin and our white bulldog, Brandy Ann, sitting facing each other. You must understand that Brandy Ann is about the most patient, sweet-natured creatures on this earth. Indeed, she was sitting patiently as K.C. was giving her a makeover that would have made Tammy Faye Baker look clean-scrubbed.

As I pushed the door open and exclaimed “K.C.!” in a loud voice, Brandy Ann raised her blue shadowed eyebrows and nervously licked her strawberry-glossed lips in surprise.
“I didn’t do it!” K.C. screeched as she sped past me, making for the security of the small space under the bed in her room.
Brandy Ann stood up nervously, knowing she’d been caught as an accomplice in this indescribable crime of fashion. Her small bulldog tail nub was pressed against her backside and her innocent eyes ringed in green eyeliner followed me as I turned and left the bathroom. The lines between the guilty and the innocent were a bit fuzzy in this particular case.

I’d love to tell you that I marched myself straight back to K.C.’s bedroom to exact a punishment proportionate to the crime, but that would be a lie. I was laughing too hard to do much of anything other than turn back to the bathroom and start picking white dog hairs off the collection of open makeup scattered about the floor. I needed a little time to gather my composure enough to face the small, remorseless make-up-artist under the bed.

Later that day I moved the mangled remains of my own make-up collection to a higher shelf, away from artistic little hands. I did, however, allow Brandy Ann to trot proudly about the house for the rest of the day made up like a two-dollar whore.

I finally broke down and went to a child specialist for help. To my consternation, we left the office with a prescription for Zoloft which is an anti-depressant. My dear K.C. was diagnosed with Oppositional Defiance Disorder (or ODD). This “disorder” is caused by low serotonin levels in the brain. A child will repeat bad behaviors because each time she does something naughty or gets punished, she will get a “rush.” How interesting that my daughter is getting high from misbehaving. We always thought she was a bit... odd.

She comes by her serotonin issues honestly, I suppose. My paternal grandmother was a bit nuts, my brother was completely whacked, my sister once had a habit of washing her hands about 68 thousand times a day and my dad and I were always a bit too anxious about nothing in general. So perhaps it was my fault… in a way.

We never mentioned to K.C. that she was going to be getting medication at all. We simply put it in a cup of milk with enough Strawberry Quick to send any other healthy person into a diabetic coma. Within a week of putting K.C. on Zoloft at the ripe old age of four, there were changes. BIG changes. She no longer spent 8 hours a day in time out, she still had toys left in her room and she became… happy. After the first week on her medication she came to me, looked up at me with her big, brown eyes and said, “I don’t cry anymore, mommy! I’m happy now!” Though I once may have cringed at the notion of putting a child on medication, my new, improved and happier version of K.C. 4.0 made it all worth while. Would Tom Cruise agree? Well if not, I will happily loan him my middle child and allow him to taste that unaltered vintage of whine for himself.

Cheers!

Doctors and Patience

Yesterday I had the pleasant adventure of taking my youngest daughter to the doctor. Since Danika has Down Syndrome, she has about 43 doctors, so I will further specify that I took her to the Endocrinologist. It was found when Danika was in the NICU that she had boarder-line hypothyroidism. This is a common issue among people with DS and can cause people to become over-weight... because people with Down Syndrome need a few extra challenges, right?

There are not very many Endocrinologists out there currently, and I called no less than ALL of the ones in the Dallas/Fort Worth areas to try to find one that both took our insurance AND had an opening before 2009.

After hours on the phone, I succeeded in finding a doctor at Children’s Medical Center in Dallas (not to be confused with Medical City Children’s or Medical City Dallas Children’s). They had an opening for June 20,2007. At the time I placed the call, it was January something, 2007, so I gladly took the appointment and wrote it into my 10 lb. 2007 – 2009 calendar.

The big day finally arrived yesterday. My middle child, who is a very precocious four-year-old, was going to have to come too as I can’t afford someone to watch her. (I’m afraid K.C. requires hazard pay to entice would-be babysitters to take such a risk.) I was quite proud I had everyone up, dressed, fed and ready to go out the door by 11:30 AM to get to our 12:45 appointment down-town.

Along the way I decided to stop at a fast-food place to pick up some lunch. I dutifully asked my four-year-old what she would like and was quite surprised when she stated “Nothing! I’m full!”

“But this is MacDonald’s! Are you SURE you don’t want anything?”
“Yes, I’m sure, mommy.”
“OK…”

I placed my order and pulled around to the window to pay.
“I want a chocolate milkshake!” a small voice whined from the back.

Thankfully the lady at the window was able to tack on this last minute health-food item as I paid.

After sitting in stop and go traffic for an hour, we arrived at CMCD (the hospital) only 5 minutes late. Hooray. I pulled into the incorrect parking lot, stopped to stare at the map I’d been sent by the doctor’s clinic, determined that the names of the streets on the map were not actually POSTED anywhere, turned the minivan around, made a U-turn at the next light and made an illegal left turn into the correct parking lot.

Jogging with a Graco Stroller and a whiny four-year-old is not as easy as it looks. It didn’t help that the outside temperature was 94 degrees. Another four degrees and I’d have been jogging through a rock group. After narrowly missing being hit by the Valet in a Hummer, we made it safely into the lobby.

We rode the elevator up to the fourth floor with my four-year-old crying the whole way because I’d forgotten to let her push the floor button. We disembarked from our elevator and found the check-in desk whereupon my four-year-old (henceforth known by her name of K.C.) announced she had to go potty. I checked in at light speed and we made it to the public bathroom just in the nick of time.

After leaving the restroom with wet hands and some soap dribbling down the side of the stroller, we located the doctor’s suite and were handed a mountain of paperwork to fill out. The nurse was already calling us to go back, so I would just have to fill out the paperwork on the run. The cup-holder trays on Graco strollers make for a great mobile desks in a pinch.

Danika was weighed, measured and her blood pressure was taking. I’m happy to announce her blood pressure was FAR better than mine was at that moment. We were then escorted to an exam room and sat down to wait for the doctor.

The doctor opened the door just in time to witness the existential ballet production by K.C. who was sailing across the room superman style atop the doctor’s stool. Pick your battles, moms – it’s this or whining.

The doctor read over Danika’s records, asked two questions and sent us down to the Lab for blood work. I’ll admit I was somewhat let down with this 4 minute visit after all my efforts. We packed up the stroller and made our way back out to the lobby where I handed the desk nurse my sloppily filled out paperwork.

After riding the elevator in which K.C. got to press the floor button, we stepped off back on the ground floor and wandered over to the Lab. In the empty lobby I was handed a paper with the number 27 on it. 27 out of what? We waited amongst the 26 invisible patients until the technician returned from a snack break and called our number.

No veins were readily noticeable in Danika’s plump baby arm, so the nurse chose to stick her finger instead. Had the finger belonged to my four-year-old, the crying would have been heard through the hospital. As it was Danika’s finger, she looked a bit surprised and then sat quietly as her tiny finger was milked for the next 20 minutes. In the mean time, K.C. was checking out all the stickers and pencils on the counter. She decided that Danika wanted the bubbles in the green bottle, and happily liberated those and a few stickers from the large glass jar in which they were neatly contained.

Then back to the car. Opening a car door on a 94 degree day is much like sticking one’s head in the oven. I felt much like the witch from Hansel & Gretel placing each of my beautiful children into the sweltering, metallic vessel and strapping them into their child “safety” seats. How safe will my children be if they are cooked before anyone has a chance to sideswipe us?

Taking a chance, I started the ignition and set the A/C on full blast, then walked back to the stroller and began collapsing it. I could just see the news reports of the car jacking in Dallas. One child would be found minutes later by the side of the road (nobody but mom can stand her whining for much longer than that) and the quiet one missing until someone realized she was still in the van when they were dismantling it. No doubt they would be met with a wide, toothless smile and two chubby hands beckoning to be picked up and hugged.

When I finally arrived home in the evening, I wondered how it was that one four minute doctor’s appointment could take up so much of my life. I estimate the total time of calling, waiting, driving, traffic, and labs to be about 6 months, 14 days, 6 hours… oh… and four minutes!

The Competition of EST

As a mom I know that there are a number of great taboos in parenting. One mustn't label one's children, one mustn't beat one's children, one mustn't belittle one's children and one must never, ever compare one's children to his/her siblings or to one's friend's children! I have found that through the years, peer pressure as well as the innate human competitive nature can sway even the most resolved mother.

Often enough, this competition of "est" starts even before our children are born. Examples of this include, "Mine took the longEST to conceive." Mine was the smallEST at the first ultrasound." Mine was the busiEST while in-utero."

From there it seems we are constantly judged by our peers on our child's performance. What age a child learns to sit, crawl, walk, self feed, speak, use a toilet and dress him or herself are all fodder for playground conversation and comparison. I once ran into an acquaintance in a grocery store who noticed the diapers in my cart and asked why my 3 year old wasn't potty trained yet. I told her it was because I am an inept parent and because we have no working toilets in the house. OK, so I didn't really say that, but I really wanted to! Of course her daughter was using a toilet by the time she was 22 months of age blah, blah, blah...

Well, if the actions of a child make someone feel superior to another parent, so be it. Do we feel so badly about ourselves that we must base our own value on the accomplishments of our child? Do our own achievements at work or in social settings pale in comparison to our child's success in the battle over thumb sucking?

I was given a different perspective on this issue upon the birth of my third child. She was my smallEST at 2 lbs. 7 oz. She was my earliEST, born at 30 weeks gestation. She also has Down Syndrome. Suddenly reaching the smallest of goals became monumental. The simple act of reaching for a toy brought a new sense of joy and pride to me, and it didn't matter what anybody else's mom thought! When my daughter first rolled over, I did a happy-dance in the family room and called every family member to brag about my daughter's achievement.

Suddenly it no longer mattered to me if my most special of children walked at age 2 or 4. Just the fact that she will someday learn to walk will be paramount. If she is using the potty consistently by age 6, I'll bust with pride. If she's reading Dr. Seuss at 10, I'll sing to the world about my daughter's talent and ability!

This newfound perception will only serve to help my two older children. As a parent who would NEVER label her children, I can tell you that my ADHD son and very high maintenance middle child will walk a path less scrutinized when missteps occur. We are, none of us, perfect. Each of us is an individual, as created by the good Lord. If we were not, the world would be a very boring place. In every facet of life it is too easy to look at the actions of others and judge. As far as my life is concerned, I am looking forward to the day that my youngest daughter will eat through her mouth for the first time. No biggie to you, but to us... AMAZING!!

Chapter… whatever

So, pregnancy was as smooth as sandpaper with nails sticking through it and encrusted in broken glass. By some miracle my boss was very understanding of my little life-altering surprise and allowed me to take on the lower-stress position of Bill Collector/Bounty Hunter/Call People and Bitch at Them. We shortened the title to Collections though honestly I prefer Goddess of Company Wealth.

Though the position was far different from any other I’d ever held, I actually wasn’t bad at it. The company was small but growing, and the Collections area needed a creative makeover. It was actually quite fun figuring out where all the problems were and finding creative solutions for them. I think I even surprised myself with some of the major changes I made in inter-company communications (I knew that degree would come in useful some day).

As my belly grew, so did my job responsibilities and, oh yeah, my blood pressure. High blood pressure is a bad thing when one is not pregnant. When pregnant, it’s like an evil mother-in-law taking up residence in the room right next to the master suite… on the headboard side of the wall. Though I did my best to take it easy, the numbers on my home blood pressure monitor climbed steadily. By 20 weeks my doctor wanted me to stop working. Of course I stopped working immediately. Immediately after the tenth of the next month. First he throws Prunes at me and then he acts like paychecks grow on trees. What was up with this doctor?

At 28 weeks of pregnancy I made the mistake of going in for a routine fetal non-stress test. The “bun” proved to be doing just fine, but the “oven” was getting a little too hot. The staff would not even let me go out to the parking lot to grab a pre-packed suitcase from the trunk of my car. I was given one of those lovely fanny emphasizing robes that ties in the back, and being 28 weeks pregnant I had to have help with those poorly-placed low-tech fastening devices.

Taking up temporary residence in the hospital was an experience. There’s nothing like sleeping on a plastic-covered mattress loosely covered with one thin sheet in the one ward of the hospital that is kept extra warm. Finding a comfortable position while pregnant is hard enough without attempting to stuff a plastic pillow between your knees for hip support. I was given the option of laying on my left side or getting repeatedly reprimanded for shifting to my right side when my left side became sore. By day two my old back injury was acting up, and by day four I called one of my best friends who happens to be a Chiropractor to come “visit” me. I felt so much better by the time she left that my blood pressure went down to 150 over 98 for an hour or two.

By Sunday, August 6^th my blood pressure was back up just a bit. My doctor seemed to think 168 over 112 was a bad thing. He asked me to call my husband and to be ready to go into surgery in the next hour. (And he thought my blood pressure was high before?)

I grabbed my cell phone and called my hubby’s number. No answer. I called his other phone. No answer. I called the first number again and almost started to freak. As I was about to try the number again I received a text message that simply said, “HOLD ON!” I was about to get wheeled in to have a baby, and he put me on HOLD behind an “important” phone call!

I did the only thing a woman who’s not allowed to get out of bed could do. I called some friends and told them to go kick my hubby’s ass. Well, I did mention I was about to have the baby, and they said they would drive right over to our house and get him if necessary. Luckily when they called his phone, he saw it wasn’t me and answered. Needless to say I got some good apologies after that cute stunt.

Though I’d had two needles in the spine before for my other two c-sections, the third time was not the charm. Though the area was supposedly numbed with Novocain, I could still feel it just fine. I love it when they say “you’re going to feel a little pressure…” Pressure my butt! That HURT! On top of that I could feel the needle going to the left of the centered target. By the time I was on the operating table I was numb from the torso down, but my blood pressure was higher than ever. In fact after the whole ordeal was done, Dr. Prune confided that he’d never seen blood pressure that high in someone with an epidural. He was actually worried I’d arrest during the surgery. I love hearing delightful tidbits like that.

I’d love to tell you every detail about the surgical experience that day, but I had been put on a Magnesium drip to prevent seizures. For those of you lucky enough to never have experienced high volumes of Magnesium infusing the bloodstream, it’s a unique experience that is somewhat comparable to being seasick while on a bad acid trip. I’ve never tried acid, but I’ve heard stories. I have now actually seen the walls breathe. I vaguely remember the anesthesiologist on my right saying “Put your arm down. Can you hear me? Please put your arm back down.” Huh? What arm? At the time I had no earthly idea what he was talking about, but I am guessing that one of the side effects of Magnesium is arm levitation.

The only clear memory I have is seeing my beautiful 2 lb. 7 oz. daughter being wheeled out in a small, plastic cart. She was pink and breathing on her own. She was absolutely beautiful. And that’s when the anesthesiologist gave me the good stuff.

I woke up (somewhat) in the recovery room. Generally at this point new mothers are wheeled to the Post-Partum ward, but they were too afraid to move me very far. In fact I was put in the room directly across the hall from the recovery room. I remember very little about the next two days. I know I was longing to see my tiny daughter, but neither she nor I could be moved. When my blood pressure was finally a little lower and the walls had stopped breathing, I was wheeled in a stretcher to the NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit). Though Danika was tiny, she was doing better than we had dared to hope. I was even allowed to hold her for a minute before being taken to my new room in the Post-Partum ward.

Just as my blood pressure was coming under control, a doctor from the NICU came to my room and excitedly announced to me that she thought my daughter had Down Syndrome. Thanks lady! That was just the medication I needed to insure a swift and stress-free recovery from the wild ride from which I’d just disembarked.

Prune

At the time I found out I was pregnant for the third time, I didn't consider myself "old." According to the date on my birth certificate, I wasn’t as "young" as I once was, but at 2 weeks away from my 37th birthday, I didn't feel a day older than 21… and a half. I certainly didn't put a great deal of thought into my age, especially because I preferred to behave like you're average twenty-something.

When I went to my doctor for my first pre-natal visit, I was given a sizable goody-bag of magazines, pamphlets and coupons. Though I was eager to look through my bag, I was short on extra time until a month or so later. I got it into my head after a long Saturday of doing laundry that reading a magazine would be fun and relaxing, so I went spelunking in my bag of wonders and noticed a high-quality, thick magazine under a pile of other "stuff." I eagerly pulled it from the bag and looked at the cover to see if this was "Parents Magazine" or some lovely catalog of baby items. It was rather a shock to read "Plum; The Complete Pregnancy Guide for Women 35+."

Honestly, my first fleeting thought was "This can't be for me!" Yet as I mentioned, the thought was fleeting when the reality of my age set in. Holy Cow! I'm over 35! Excuse me? Am I such an anomaly that an entire magazine is dedicated to the amazement that is my pregnancy? Apparently so!

I threw down the magazine in disgust... and later picked it back up and put it in my bag to take to work. Hmmm, it is true. I am pregnant and I am over 35. I suppose somehow I just hadn't thought of those two particular elements of my life, together.

As I started mulling over this newly discovered idea, a number of thoughts came to my mind. I started to wonder about the goody-bags kept at my doctor's office. I envisioned one nurse telling another in the back room "Oh, be sure to give the 4:15 one of the bags for 'older' mothers." I wondered if they had two separate piles of goody bags, or if they just alter a bag every now and then for an "old" gal like myself. Do they need a big pile of Plums rotting in the back room, or do they just go through a few each month.

And "Plum?" We might as well call it "Prune" for those of us bearing children in our crow's-feet years! Or how about "Geriatric Gestation" or "Diapers and Depends?" Perhaps "What Took You So Long" or “Afterthought" would be great name candidates too. How about "When Your Baby's in College, You'll Be... Dead?" I can see articles in such a magazine entitled "A Wal-Mart Greeter Can Pay College Tuition!" and "How to Deal With Women Half Your Age At PTA Meetings."

It's true. In Texas especially, many women become mothers at 19 or 20. I'll be 42 when my youngest goes to Kindergarten. Will I be constantly mistaken for my child's grandmother? Will teachers young enough to BE my child annoy me?

Honestly, I am still clueless to this day. It had barely sunk in that I was pregnant at all, let alone that my "advanced age" somehow put me at risk. How could I be 37 already, anyway? Wasn't I celebrating my 18th birthday just a few years ago? I look at women in their late 30's and early 40's and I don't think of myself as being like them. In fact I see a lot of women younger than myself that just seem somehow older than me. Perhaps it was the years I spent performing in "Peter Pan" with a local college theater group that somehow gave me a skewed sense of age.

Whatever the case may be, I'm still not ready to age gracefully. Heck - I plan to go into it kicking and screaming the whole way! And when my children finally do graduate and move out of the house, I'm going to get that sports car I've always wanted, a horse and a new bikini. I'm going to travel as much as my job's salary will allow, and I'm going to spend every cent of my children’s inheritance. When I’m 110, perhaps I’ll settle down and when my husband dies, I’ll find a nice young man and be his sugar-momma!

So was I special because I was pregnant and over 35? Next time I go to the doctor's office, I'm going to tell him where he can stick his "Plum!"

Disaster Flambé

In the summer of 2005 I decided it was time to get out of the home child care scene. My own children were enough of a challenge, and my house was a disaster. Though I had four dogs at the time, the odor and stains on my carpet had not come from any of my four-legged charges. Perhaps that was a catalyst in my decision to trade in child care for doggie daycare.

I started about the same way I did with the child care, but I also took the step to rent a building in which to have my business. Now living in a Texas town North of Dallas, I checked ordinances and codes. Though the folks at Town Hall told me the existing cement floors in the building I had rented would suffice, the OTHER people at Town Hall later told me the floors would have to be sealed with epoxy. Of course by this time I had already made a bit of an investment in renovating the building.

There is a lot of stress associated with starting one’s own business. There is also stress in having a two-year-old hanging from one's ankle every minute of the day when starting said business. I didn’t realize it at the time, but we humans have a built-in gauge that measures stress. It’s called “Blood Pressure.” Though the last few times I had been to the doctor my blood pressure was a tad high, I never thought anything of it as mine had always been ridiculously low.

Around this time my sister called me and asked me to come to Louisiana. In her twenty-seventh week of pregnancy, she had been put in the hospital when proteins were found in her urine (yum!). I packed up the last of all of our baby toys, car seats, bassinets, bottles and so-on and prepared to drive to Louisiana. Mind you, this was about a week after Hurricane Katrina blew through, and though my sister lived in Lafayette, there was still a bit of turmoil across the state. My husband could not come with me, so in his stead I brought my beloved Olde Victorian Bulldogge, Brandy Ann and my Chihuahua, Devon. Brandy’s looks alone would be enough to deter any person with malice on the mind.

While in LA I took it upon myself to create the proper environment for my sister’s new addition. I had my brother-in-law move all the computer equipment and furniture out of the chosen future room of the first-born, and painted my butt off for the next two days. This is why I no longer have a butt... I wish! I should mention that I am actually NOT a beginner painter. I have enjoyed creating art on any piece of blank canvas I find. My own home does not have a white wall in any room… I take that back. My son’s room has an Oriental theme. Rice-paper white walls on three walls and a brilliant oriental red on the fourth wall. The trim around the doors, floor and windows is black, and I painted a dragon in gold upon the red wall. What? Don't all mothers paint "theme" rooms for their children?

While off on this tangent, I might as well run wild and tell you that I have always wanted Venetian Plaster and stone for walls. By no stretch of anyone’s imagination could I afford such luxuries, so I created my own plaster and stone (and brick and adobe…) with paint. I love it when visitors look about the disaster that is my home and look visibly surprised to see an arched brick window above the kitchen cabinets, or marble walls in the bathroom.

The baby’s room in my sister’s house was not finished a moment too soon. Baby Joshua was born on Labor Day (of all possible days) in 2005. He weighed in at 1 lb. 8 oz. Thank goodness the little guy had a huge amount of “fight” in him to carry him through the next few months. Knowing that my sister lived just down the street from some big NFL football player, I was disappointed I didn't have one of those stork signs on which I could paint "Louisiana welcomes it's newest future NFL lineman, Joshua. Weight: 1 1/2 lbs. Height: 12 inches!" for the front yard.

Just after Joshua’s birth, my sister’s doctor asked our family members if anyone else had high blood pressure. The answer was a resounding “No.” Shortly after the final echo of the word, I started to wonder just a little bit about my last few visits to my own doctor. Was it possible little Miss saltaholic-I’ve-always-had-low-blood-pressure could be developing a problem? Nah!

Upon my return to Texas, I made myself an appointment with my doctor to follow-up on my new migraine medication. The visit created a whole new kind of headache for me. My blood pressure was quite a bit higher than my aspirations of building a successful doggie daycare business. I started taking medications that seemed to do no more than an order of salty french-fries would. The dosage was increased almost weekly, and I was taken off all other substances that might elevate my blood pressure for any reason. I finally allowed the doctor to talk me into walking away from my floundering doggie daycare business, and into going off the birth control pill I had been on since the birth of my last child. I found a job working for a small company in a nearby town and got pregnant on my first day.

Nothing like sleeping your way to the top… and no, it’s not like it sounds. I suppose the stars aligned just perfectly on the 18^th of January, 2006. Our little celebration for my first day in a new job (and that cute little French Maid outfit my hubby got me) resulted in pregnancy number three. How was I going to explain this to my new boss after only three weeks on the job? I know – you’re probably thinking “why even tell your boss so early?” Well, I had taken a sales position that required 50 plus hours of attention a week, and my blood pressure just found a new reason to become even higher. Somehow I had inadvertently found myself in possession of all the necessary ingredients for the recipe for “Disaster Flambé.”

Baby Daze… A few Things Every Working Parent Should Know About Child Care

After coming to the realization that our angelic baby girl had that lovely four-hour-a-day screaming condition knows as Colic, we decided it would be wise not to put her in day care. Though we loved her with all our hearts, we knew for certain that we had the kind of baby that other people kill. We’ve all heard about these types of cases on the news, and the story almost always consists of some over-worked childcare worker and a baby with colic. We were not going to take any chances.

This left us with the question of how we would make ends meet if I were staying at home. After a few months of consideration, it became clear that if I could keep my sanity while my own inconsolable child shrieked for hours on end, I could do anything! There was also an obvious need in our area for trustworthy, quality child care. The only actual day care center in our town had a name that emulated a child’s speech impediment. It may sound “cute” to some, but it does not exactly inspire confidence in the type of academics available at such a place.

And that’s how I became Ms. Leigh.

I started by hanging flyers in all the local establishments every day. Though that may sound odd, evidently the other home child care providers in my town are highly competitive, jealous thieves with plenty of time on their sticky little hands. No matter where I hung fliers, they were always gone within twenty-four hours. These providers must have believed me to be the sharing type, for they thought nothing of stealing my fliers, plagiarizing them and hanging their copied versions up in a public place where I would be certain to see them.

At any rate, a few people who needed child care did actually see my fliers in those few hours and called me. I built up my business to my own specifications rather than those of the state of Texas. In Texas, you see, a home child care provider may care for up to twelve children by him or herself. This begs the question: what loving parent would leave their child in a home with a provider who never urinated, and if the provider did urinate on occasion, what were the twelve children doing? I know few people who could maintain sanity with twelve children between the ages of six weeks and five years running about the house. One two-year-old in the same room with a child of any other age is enough to drive most folks out of their minds.

I decided to set the limit of three pre-school age children and three more school age children. I took a risk and took extended hours clients, such as the children of airline attendants and nurses. This meant that there were days I kept children for over twenty-four hours straight, but they only came two or three days a week. It actually worked out quite nicely because I rarely had more than three "borrowed" kids at any one time, and they were asleep for half of their stay!

Now I must say that I have learned quite a lot working on the business end of child care. I know what it is like to be a working parent as well as a single parent. I know what it is like to try to save money, yet to want the best for my child. Here are some good examples of I’ve learned from my experiences as a childcare provider.

Sub-Standard Wipes
Don’t you love those chepo, generic wipes? Though most of us prefer to use the hearty, thick ones at home, sometimes it’s easier to find the most dollar-friendly wipes to send to our care provider. So here’s a visual…

Your child care provider is changing your precious bundle of poo-poo. She has little Chris up on the changing table and to keep Chris safe, she always has one hand firmly holding that squirming body so that it does not go bungee jumping off the table sans the bungee cord. With the other hand your provider unfastens the diaper, moves it out from under Chris’s bum, grabs a sub-standard wipe and… Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh, gets half the poop on the sub-standard wipe and the other half on the hand holding the sub-standard wipe. Then your provider will reach that poop-covered hand back over to grab another ten substandard wipes to try to remove the remaining poop from Chris’ bum as well as from her hand. Now there is poop on your container of wipes, on no-less than eleven wipes now stacked precariously atop the afore mentioned soiled diaper, on your provider’s hand, on the changing table…

Now your provider must remove Chris from the table before she can wash the poop from her hands. This task takes two hands… yummy!

Business Hours

What would happen if you were suddenly and magically transported out of your house and into your place of business twenty minutes before you were ready to leave home? You might suddenly find yourself behind your desk with your bathrobe on and a half-eaten bagel in your hand. Wouldn’t that be fun? When we show up to drop off our kids twenty minutes early at our child care provider’s house, we shouldn’t be surprised if she meets us at the door with a bathrobe on, a half-eaten bagel in her hand and a surprised look on her face.

Sub-Standard Bottles

Just like the wipes, we are often inclined to keep the “good ones” for our own house. There is a reason that we don’t like or use the cheap bottles. It’s because there are only two kind of cheap bottles, the ones that drip everywhere and the ones that don’t drip at all. When stuck with one of the ones that drip everywhere, your child care provider will have to refill the bottle a few times before your baby is no longer hungry and then change your baby’s wet clothing. With one of the of the bottles that doesn’t drip at all, your provider will have to give her undivided attention to your baby for the next three hours while he attempts to suck the contents from the unyielding source. His suction will have to be broken every ten seconds to allow the bottle to vent so that more liquid may or may not come out. He will cry in frustration when his hunger is not being satisfied, and after the bottle has finally been drained, it will be time for another bottle.

Being On Time

In the past I have may have considered calling my own son’s provider ten minutes before I was supposed to pick my child up to ask “Do you mind if I just run to the grocery store before picking Jacob up? It’s so much easier that way!”

I then had this done too me when I became a provider. I now know that my child care provider has a life after my children. No one likes it when the boss shows up at your desk just as you’re about to shut down your computer and informs you that she will need you to stay an extra hour. Your child care provider probably has plans of dragging her own three kids to the grocery store that same evening and she’d like to get going so she can get home before midnight.

Parental Expectations

In my ongoing attempt to be the best parent I can be, I want the best for my children. I know I put plenty of time and research into finding just the right child care provider for my little ones. My provider must be gentle, loving, willing to provide a safe environment and healthy food. She must be willing to leave the television off and supply educational activities to help my little one learn basic concepts like colors, numbers, letters, and all the different animals. She must change diapers regularly, sing silly songs, tickle tummies and read the same “favorite books” over and over and over. And above all else, she must be the cheapest provider I can find after calling around for days on end.

I am no longer taking care of other people’s children, but I will certainly carry all the lessons I learned from the experience with me. I count myself very lucky to have found just the right people to watch over my little ones in the past. My salute to those still working in one of the hardest professions there is. I won't be rejoining your ranks any time soon.

Glue And Not Staples

Finally I had reached the 38 week mark in my pregnancy, and the date for the planned cesarean section. I don’t think there has ever been another woman in the world more excited to get a large needle put into her spinal cord and be numbed from the chest down! I was given an epidural as my history with spinals was rather colorful. That epidural was some good stuff!

For the first time in 16 weeks I felt no contractions, no sciatica and no cramping pain in my lower regions. I was thrilled to be strapped down on the table and opened up like a deer after the hunt. I didn’t even notice the pressure as the doctor leaned his entire weight on my upper abdomen to dislodge the transverse tyke within. I did notice that he had dragged me a number of inches southward as he attempted to yank my little K.C. from her cozy nest, but I couldn’t have cared less.

When the doctor finally pulled her out (bringing to mind a veterinarian wrenching a stuck calf from its mother’s womb) he announced that I had given birth to about five gallons of water and a five pound eight ounce baby girl with a full head of hair. What a surprise it was that she had so much fur on her head… not. She was tiny, but seemed healthy. I was shown her beautiful right foot before she was whisked away for evaluation to the neonatal intensive care unit due to her small size. I would have been terribly put out about not getting to visit with more of her had I not fallen asleep.

That’s right, asleep. After weeks of attempting to slumber through regular visits from the contraction fairy and not succeeding very well, I passed out, far more comfortable than I had been in months. I could just hear through the veil of my sweet repose the entire operating room staff giggling about the new mommy who passed a baby and then passed out. What can I say? I was relaxed knowing every detail of the delivery had been worked out with the doctor prior to this big day.

One detail I was most careful to mention to the good doctor was that I needed to be fastened back together with sutures and not staples. I have a number of rather odd allergies, and one of them happens to be metal. Surgical steel was among the metals that would set off an ugly little reaction, and as it was not in the doctor’s general practice to use 14 karat gold staples, no staples could be used.

The doctor was very careful to follow each of my requests down to the last element. He sutured me up neatly and finished his work with Dermabond. Dermabond is special glue used with tape-like strips to hold an incision together. And that is how I learned of my allergy to Dermabond.

Within a day of the surgery, I was feeling super. I was up and about and enjoying my new baby girl. It was on one of my regular trips to the bathroom that I noticed my hospital-issue new-mommy undergarment seemed to be sticking to my incision site. I called the nurse to come take a peek so I could be reassured that all was well. The nurse took her peek and ran from the room screaming. Well, I suppose in truth she was yelling orders to have my doctor summoned immediately. Yikes! I don’t think I would have been more concerned had I sneezed, sending my uterus through my incision and flying across the room to end with a wet “smack” against the opposing wall.

My doctor was there within minutes. He took his peek and called his colleague in for a look too.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen an allergic reaction quite that… “
“Yeah, that’s bad!” They said to each other in hushed tones.
“So, um, this looks pretty… ah… uncomfortable.” They finally addressed me. “We’re going to start you on some intravenous benadryl to try to… um… calm it down a bit. We’ll get an appointment set up for you with a specialist tomorrow to figure out where to go from there.”

Gee. This was fun! For the next two days I sat with no less than thirty-six thousand tiny blisters covering my incision site, exposed for the entire world to see. My visit to the Dermatologist had to wait until after the weekend when he was back in the office. That visit was even more fun!

One by one, each of the twenty-eight Dermabond strips had to be soaked in acid and slowly peeled off my giant, raging hive. It felt rather like the unhurried, methodical stinging of bees. I have learned from experience that one of the best ways to get through something yucky and painful is to make dumb jokes abut it. At least then someone is laughing and having fun. I kept my husband and the nurse giggling throughout the entire hour and a half long peeling process. I can’t for the life of me remember what on earth I found so funny at the time, but it made the experience less traumatic, somehow. I was able to get some loose-fitting pants on, and I was then released from the hospital.

We brought our beautiful little baby girl home and got all settled in. My husband and I were happy to be back in familiar surroundings and have our little one to ourselves. It would be nice to finally use my own shower and eat my own food. It was great to dress and undress in the master bedroom in front of the full-length mirror and… “Holy CRAP!” As I stood back up after removing my pants, the most horrible site caught my eye in the mirror. Where my thin, white, smiley-face c-section scar from Jacob’s birth had once been, I had a giant set of what appeared to be bright red, swollen clown lips laughing back at me.

My tears quickly summoned my husband who, upon running into the room fearful that I was somehow in danger, burst out laughing. His statement of “It looks like Angelina Jolie’s lips!” did nothing at all to make me feel better. I was certain I would face a life deformed in the most ridiculous manner. Divorce would never again be an option (not that the concept is such a bad thing) as I certainly could not disrobe in front of some poor, unsuspecting man I had only been dating for a short while. “Hey, baby! Check this out!” Eeeewwwwww!

Over the next year my grotesque abdominal lips faded into that same thin, white smiley face it had been before. Now it’s quietly smiling about the joke it once played on me, and serves as a reminder each time I chance to catch my naked reflection in my mirror. Now I wear the bigger smile on my face. I smile because I know how blessed I am to have been allowed to have two beautiful children in my life. Smile!

The Sleep-Deprived Ranting of a Pregnant Lady

The following night was to be the height of the full moon, and for those of you who are unaware, more babies are born on a full moon than any other time. No wonder they tend to howl when they come out. Anyway, this particular night I was about thirty-five weeks along and my very own little internal bundle of joy decided to make herself more comfortable. Until this time she had been mostly transverse breech (o><) or sideways inside of me. I swear to the heavens she was sticking straight out that night. Her head was apparently against my spine and her feet were trying to come out of my belly-button. My hubby said my belly looked like it had (pardon the expression) a hard-on. The word "uncomfortable" can't even begin to describe the sensation. Of course paired with my BHO (belly hard-on) I was having contractions every five minutes. It didn't matter what I did or how I sat or if I lay on my side. I even tried laying on my back - at very least my little one would have the sensation of being head-down for once.

Finally I gave up and went to bed at 8:00 PM. The contractions subsided just a bit. Just enough to let me fall asleep... then WAKE ME UP... then fall asleep... then WAKE ME UP... then fall asleep...

By 12:00 AM it was I who was ready to trot outside and howl at the almost completely full moon. I'm sure my neighbors would have LOVED awakening to some huge, naked pregnant lady standing on her back deck screaming out over the moon-lit lake, "JUST LET MY DAMN WATER BREAK, ALREADY!" Yup. They'd like that.

Every hour or so I got up, peed about a teaspoon's worth, tried to stretch my menstrual-cramp-achy lower back, popped my neck, attempted to get at least one of my hips back in alignment, crept back to bed (as well as a pregnant-huge lady with whacked-out hips can creep) and laid there praying for my water to break. Of course all this activity was quite exciting to my little tyke who thought it would be fun to show me how talented she will someday be in every possible form of Martial Arts.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuugggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhh!

And left with nothing to do but ponder, I recalled two incidents that happened just the day before at work. Early in the day a lady came in with her 3 or 4-year-old child. She was so excited I was pregnant and started asking me all sorts of questions. I finally confided that my first pregnancy had been soooo easy, and this one had been pretty difficult, but I was hanging in there. She nodded quite knowingly and stated that her second pregnancy was "pure hell" and "so incredibly hard, I'd never believe it!" Of course this begged my inquiry, which I offered on cue. "I was SOOOO tired the last two weeks - it was HORRIBLE!" She shared with me.

"Um, let me finish your paperwork so I don't hold you up." I replied.

Any other time I think I would have found a polite way of hinting to her that a problem like that would seem like a gnat on this elephant's toenail (after 18 weeks of bad 24x7 morning-sickness, sciatica and the diagnosis of an Irritable Uterus at 22 weeks… not only was it deformed, but it was pissed off too!) but I was too darn tired to even bother with her ignorance. I sure hope she never tells someone who REALLY had problems, like bed-rest, medications, pre-eclampsia, diabetes and a preemie baby to show for it, how hard her pregnancy was! Perhaps someone will slap her someday. One can only hope.

At the end of the day a well-meaning customer, who was aware to a limited extent of my difficulties, came into the business. "Don't worry. I just know you'll make it all the way to the end!"

"That is not what I want to hear! I do not want to go three more weeks like this. I don't think I can handle this for another HOUR! If you had scarab beetles with burning acid saliva eating you slowly and painfully from the inside out, would you want me to tell you "Don't worry - I think you'll live for another three weeks or so?" I don't think so!”
My outburst was met with a hardy guffaw by my co-worker and the bemusement of my poor customer.

After that I heard there was to be a full lunar eclipse of the full moon on the following night (May 15th, 2003). The moon, earth and sun would be in perfect alignment. I could just picture my husband and myself showing up at Labor and Delivery at 11:40 PM (the height of the eclipse in North America) along with dozens of other pregnant couples. I believe I would have raised the most eyebrows when they asked me "When did your contractions start?" and I replied "Thirteen weeks ago."

Arf, Arf Aaaaawwwwwwwwwoooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
(And they'll wonder why my baby was born with so much hair!)

Alien Encounter

Everyone always told me how different their boys and girls were while they were carrying them. By my twenty-third week of pregnancy I would have told you this one started out differently too. I felt Jake for the first time at 14 weeks, and felt him regularly after that. This one I felt at 12 weeks (because she was sitting right on my overly-sensitive bladder) but stopped feeling her when my uterus rose up a bit. I started feeling her again around 16 weeks, but only now and then.

By twenty-three weeks she made herself known ALL THE TIME. She was not at all like Jake. Jake was gentle with mommy. He'd bounce and bump and rub and pat and wiggle. This one punched and stabbed and kicked and walloped! My belly button became a point of interest, and a great punching bag. My hubby often joked that she was going to hit it just right someday and make my innie an outie. My bladder made a great trampoline, especially when it was full and we were in a car. How nice I was to supply her with toys in there! On top of everything else, I had developed an “irritable uterus” which meant I enjoyed hard contractions a minimum of four times an hour. At first I would go check in with my doctor (that's what the books tell you to do if this happens) but later I was instructed not to bother the doctor with my contractions "unless part of the baby was hanging out." Needless to day, there were days I went to the ladies room just to check myself for extra feet.

The dog and cat still fought over who got to sit on mommy's lap, but I think both were contemplating the possibility of demonic possession. One night the cat was asleep on my lap when the baby woke up and decided it was play time. This warm lump on top of her was neat! If she punched it just right...
Yes, I think I had the best view from the outside. Without warning, the baby clobbered the cat's tender underbelly. Wellington's round, green eyes opened wide with shock and he jumped up to find the mouse that had run beneath him. He inspected and sniffed the entire area of my belly for almost a minute before deciding he'd been mistaken, and settling back down to complete his nap.
Whump!
Wellington shot from my lap as if he's been... well... kicked. He sped to a hideout under the coffee table, eying me with distrust as my hubby and I sat there laughing until tears came to our eyes.

The dog had encountered the bumping tummy also. The first time or two she sat upright and sniffed my belly thoroughly. After deciding there was no immediate danger, and no goblins hatching out of my belly button, she decided she didn't mind getting whacked every now and then, provided I continue to allow her to sit on me. She had also noticed that lap real estate had become progressively more limited. The good news for her (unlike the 15 lb cat) was that there was almost always room for a 6 lb Chihuahua, even one wearing a pink sweater and sparkly purple collar.

Since the dog had decided the tummy is not dangerous, the cat eventually gained enough trust to vie for the limited lap space, often dislodging the canine in his efforts to become comfortable. Of course it was mommy's job to make sure there was room for everyone on the quickly shrinking lap.

As the baby grew stronger, my clothes grew progressively more interesting. Shirts with stripes turned into shirts with moving waves. Loose items fluttered when under attack from the entity within, and solids gathered quickly moving shadows before they fell back in place. My belly button was permanently bruised, and my bladder had become a popular dance floor for tiny feet.

I'll never forget the day I was sitting at work entering information into an order on the computer. I felt the giant kick just as the keyboard tray and keyboard that had been resting just against my growing belly, disappeared from under my hands and rolled back under the desk.

Of course this behavior was not something that just happened in the daylight hours. Talk about things that go thump in the night! There must be some kind of rule that playtime starts when mommy is just… drifting… off. Whack! If the baby could communicate, I’m sure she’d be saying, “Are you asleep yet? Gotta pee?” And all ideas of sleep that I had just moments before are put on hold until after the first of many potty breaks for the night.

Can you tell what a child's personality will be like before they're born? I knew if this was any indication of things to come, my daughter would have no trouble trouncing her brother by the time she was two. Mommy's job will be protecting the tiny ten-year-old from the terrible-two-tantrums. My husband suggested we get her involved with martial arts very early, so she can learn patience and control to go with that cat-launching kick. Perhaps she'll have an affinity for soccer, or become the first female NFL kicker. Only time will tell.

DMV Disco

Don't you love going to get your new driver's license? No? Me too. But I have to say, I really lucked out and found a DMV near my town where I've never had to wait more than 15 minutes! I'm serious! It's great every time I have to go in to change my name or my address, though I think they’re starting to recognize me in there. Come to think of it, that just might be the worst part of moving, getting married or getting a divorce… waiting in line at the highly feared Department of Motor Vehicles!

Well, I finally went in to change my name to Edwards. During my 15 minute wait, a mother came in with her young twins and a woman I guessed to be the children’s grandmother. The identical girls were about two years old and as energetic as could be. They quickly assessed the situation and had control of the room and their grandma as soon as mom had stepped out to take her test.

As grandma sat them down, one took off. Grandma dutifully got up and retrieved her. Just as they got back to the seats, the other girl took off in the opposite direction. This went on for about 10 minutes. Pretty soon the whole room was in hysterics. Poor grandma never thought to take one twin with her as she retrieved the other. Needless to say, the twins thought this was a wonderful game. They looked quite practiced at it, in fact.

So that was my entertainment for the waiting portion. My number was then called and I went back to have my picture taken.

The DMV lady looked over my paperwork, and then asked, "Has your weight changed from this number?"
"Yeah, you could say that."
"May I have your current weight please?"
"Um... No. Just use the old one if you would."
"Honey, we need to use your current weight."
"Ma'am, I'm 6 months pregnant. My 'Current' weight changes by the day, so I honestly don’t know it. In fact, it's so depressing, I try very hard NOT to weigh myself these days. Couldn't we please use my non-pregnant weight just for today?" I asked as sweetly as I could.
She looked a bit embarrassed and without another word, put my pre-pregnancy weight on the forms. What a relief. I really have little desire to carry an ID around for the next few years (or until I move or remarry again) with my weight showing at about 20 pounds heavier than I plan to be following the birth of my baby.

When I assess the situation, I suppose she did the correct thing. We've all heard horror stories of people who ask a woman when she's due only to find out she's not pregnant. So in this catch-22, is it then ok to assume someone is just fat? Or perhaps she was making the assumption that I simply like to wander about town with a half deflated basketball beneath my shirt. We'll never know. Anyway, I was told my new drivers’ license would arrive in the mail in 6 - 8 weeks. The weight showing on it would be my incentive. I plan to be that weight again, someday.

This made me wonder. We go in to the DMV to change our names, addresses and any other pertinent information on our ID’s. Does that mean that one should go in if one has gained say, 60 or 70 pounds? Would this be pertinent information?

Can’t you see getting to the front of the line and telling the lady behind the counter, “Yes, Ma’am. I’m here because I’ve been eating way too much. Just wanted the state of Texas to be aware of that.”

Hmmmm. Now that could be a new diet in and of it self.

And then would the same rule apply for those who have made a huge effort and lost weight? Would the DMV set off bells and whistles, and announce to everyone in the waiting room, “Mrs. Smith is here today to have her new picture taken after loosing 84 pounds! Let’s have a big round of applause for Mrs. Smith! Doesn’t she look lovely?”

It makes you wonder what people might do differently if they had to go to the dreaded DMV each time they gained or lost 20 pounds or more. “I was going to start my diet this year, but I simply don’t have time to go to the DMV. It will have to wait another year or two until I can clear my calendar.”

Butt…

Sometimes Mondays can be so bad that you actually know they’re bad before 6:00 AM. This was just such a Monday. The alarm went off around 5:30 AM and the snooze button was hit almost instantly. When it went off about seven minutes later, my husband and I actually started to move and stretch. Like any other Monday we exchanged early morning pleasantries and asked how the other slept.

Then things went terribly awry. Teasingly, I told my husband he had stolen the covers.
“I’ve got the same amount of covers I always have.” He replied.
“Then why do I feel a breeze on my butt?” I giggled back.
“Because you’ve got a big butt.”
“What??”
“Because your butt is big… Where are you going? What’s wrong?”
“I need to get dressed and cover up my big, fat, ugly butt!”
“You didn’t let me finish. I was going to say that all of you is bigger because you’re six and a half months pregnant, and I like the changes. Of course your butt is big.” He finished in a very lame attempt to recover from his desperate error in judgment and tact.

I’d heard enough. I was ready to crawl under my rock and hide for a while, but I was pretty sure my big, fat butt was not going to fit. I just needed to escape. I grabbed my clothes and ran for the bathroom, barely keeping the tears back.

After taking me 2 years to loose the excess weight I had gained while pregnant with my son, I had sworn never to be so overweight again. I had even gone the other way and gotten down to 98 pounds before settling on a healthy 110 – 115 for my athletic 5”0” frame. For the past 6 years of my life I had lived on a very strict diet to counter my lack of metabolism. The one target of my total, undying hatred? My butt!

My butt is not horrible when covered in nice jeans or shorts. While wearing a bathing suit, I have always kept a short sarong wrapped around my hips to disguise the cellulite. This cellulite was passed down from generation to generation, from my grandmother to my mother to me, just like the Steinway & Son’s grand piano that’s been in our family for over a hundred years. Though the piano is worth quite a bit today, the cellulite is not. No matter how much weight I’ve lost in the past and no matter how many miles I have gone on my in-line-skates, that cellulite has followed me like a bad acquaintance who’s always saying, “I’ve got your back!”

That morning I made it to the bathroom before bursting into a volley of tears. It wasn’t just my day that was ruined. My month was ruined, my year was ruined. Everything was ruined until I could get rid of my big, fat butt!

The worst part of all was the knowledge that it would never go away unless I somehow saved the money to have it surgically removed. I knew after my pregnancy, I might go down to about 105 pounds with hard work and dieting, but that huge butt would still be back there. Even if it got back down to a size 2 again, it would still have that ugly, bumpy quality to it. With my luck I’d finally have liposuction one day, only to have it sag like ancient, deflated breasts. Ancient, LUMPY, deflated breasts. Yuck!

Are we women too sensitive about what people say and think about our bodies? HELL YES, we are! It was great when Sir Mixalot came out with the infamous rap, Baby Got Back. It gave some of us hope that there were men out there who like women with a bit of junk in the trunk. The question still stands; do they mind the hail damage on the trunk lid?

Twenty-five-thousand apologies followed that morning’s unfortunate event, but none could ever undo the damage to my self esteem. Sometimes I’m known to carry on a running dialog with myself inside my head. That morning it consisted of, “Jake’s ready. Ok, now get him in the car. Buckle up his car seat. I hope nobody in the neighborhood sees my fat butt hanging out of the car. They might think a hippo has escaped from the zoo and gotten its head stuck in my car. Ok, now sit your fat butt in the seat. Am I doing damage to the springs? Will this lower the resale value of my car? Drop him off at school, and off I go to my work. Park the car. Open the door and squeeze giant, fat butt out the door.

My poor, bemused husband even went so far as to back out of going to a basketball game with some of his buddies that night so he could come home and console me and my fat butt. I truly wished he hadn’t as I had already made plans to go get a haircut (to draw more attention to my face and away from my giant a$$) and to pout. I’m sure he would have enjoyed watching those stick-thin, twenty-year-old, non-pregnant cheerleaders shaking their tiny, little bootys around all evening instead of coming home to kiss my big, fat one. Pity.

As for me, at the beauty salon I had an opportunity to berate myself further while looking at all the tight-butted models in Cosmo and Glamour and afterward I went home to watch TV shows starring a multitude of anorexic actresses. I was just pampering myself! (Speaking of pampers, I wondered if they made adult diapers this big?).

Was I obsessed? Yes. Would I diet even though I was pregnant? Let’s put it this way. If I hadn’t gained another pound in the last 13 weeks of that pregnancy, I would still have gained more than enough. My baby would have been just fine, feeding off the stores of my great, big, fat, butt! I figured she would probably be a little porker, in fact. No, I didn’t diet. I just did not eat as much. I ate healthy food. And vitamin pills. And I swore I would never look in the mirror again. When they made me step on a scale at the doctor’s office, I turned around so I couldn’t see it (then I promptly weighed myself as soon as I got home because curiosity was killing me). And above all, I always wore clothes that covered up my big, fat, huge, nasty, lumpy, gross butt!

Ever have one of those days?

Baby Naming

I’m sure for some couples, the process of baby naming is easy. Either one parent is a push over and doesn’t care or they’re one of those very rare couples who always agree on everything. For the rest of us, baby naming can be like a game show, the object of which is to decide upon a somewhat socially acceptable name that neither partner hates, without killing or permanently offending anyone involved, in a nine month period of time. Easier said than done.

Let’s take for example Tarzan and Jane. They had a lovely son named Boy. Do you really think Jane had very much to do with the naming of that child? Perhaps it was the fact that it was a different era. Perhaps Jane was the more complacent type. I envision her at eight months pregnant, sitting in her grass hammock with her head tilted to one side, considering Tarzan’s suggestion of “Boy.”
“Boy… that has a nice ring to it. Now, honey, would you mind rubbing my feet and picking the insects out of my hair? Just don’t fill up before dinner.”
And why was it that everyone else got interesting names, like Tarzan or Cheetah? I understand that “Boy” might have been the easiest name, basically calling a spade a spade, but Cheetah was a primate!

And then there are parents who can’t, or simply won’t make up their minds. Olympic medalist Picabo Street was known as “Little Girl” for the first two years of her life. Why? Because her parents wanted her to pick her own name. This could be looked at as either very forward thinking, or a cop-out. Picking one’s own name at age 2 or 3 may be a nice idea, but the problems start at age 5 when little Patty Peterson realizes she will be known as Pee-pee for the rest of her elementary career. Should she blame herself, or her parents who didn’t want the responsibility of naming her?

Of course picking a name for your baby that he or she won’t be teased about later on is no easy task either. This is especially dangerous for people who don’t decide on a name until after the baby has been born. Naming a baby on the spur of the moment without the input from others should never be attempted by anybody who does not have a firm grasp of the English language or medical terminology. The world is not a friendly place when your name is Latrine or Gonoreah.

One must take into careful consideration what how the first and last names sound collectively. Say the names together fast to test them out. For instance, Frank Epstein, Shanda Lear and Lee King are not good combinations. Also consider if the name you are giving your child lends itself too easily to a less fortunate nick name. Boys with names like Harry Pit and Dick Ryder may not thank you, either.

You must also decide if you want your child to have a popular name or not. My son’s name is Jacob, a name of his father’s choosing. It has also the number one most popular boy’s name for the six years following his birth, according to social security statistics. In Jacob’s second grade class of fourteen students, three of them were named Jacob. Nine of Jacob’s classmates were girls. If any boy is misbehaving, a substitute teacher has a really good chance if he or she simply calls out “Jacob!” Three-fifths of the boys will respond to this name. Of course my son is now forced to go by his first name and last initial to differentiate him from all the other Jacobs’. As soon as another Jacob with the same last initial enters the class, my son’s name will again be changed to first name and complete last name, and so-on.

On the other side of the coin, if the name is too original, teachers and classmates won’t be able to read, pronounce or spell it. Though it may be a beautiful name when pronounced correctly, it may never be heard in its correct form outside the home. There is little benefit in this for little Delesiahannah, who still can’t spell her own name in the third grade. Yes, that’s pronounced Dee-Les-Ee-Ah-Ha-Nah, in case you were wondering.

So as you and your partner dutifully write down all your name ideas, enjoy each moment and each wonderful possibility. Just remember that by naming your child, you are condemning him or her to that name for the rest of his or her life. Of course your child can change it after they turn eighteen, but in return, they might condemn you to introduce them as MoonRaven Zenlight for the rest of yours. Choose wisely for from now on every little thing you do will inevitably have some profound effect on your child’s well-being that they will, without doubt, blame you for when they are older.

The Cat and the Christmas Tree

At Christmas time in 2002, we had two cats, Monty and Wells. Wells was about four years old an already quite a talented Christmas tree dismantler. Monty was only about eight or nine months old, and had never experienced the holiday tradition of climbing the Christmas tree and batting all the sparkly things off with one’s paw. We felt certain that Wells would quickly teach him what a pleasure this could be, and took measures to prevent the undoing of our Christmas decorating.

Upon finishing the dressing of the tree, we erected a removable gate all the way around it to keep the cats at a distance from all the fascinating shiny and blinking things. For weeks the tree remained untouched, and sparkled brightly within its confines. The presents piled up within that circle of safety, and we ceased to worry about feline vs. plastic pine mishaps.

Finally Christmas arrived, and the gate was opened to allow us to gather and unwrap our gifts. As we were sitting right by the tree, we were not concerned that the cats were shut in the same room with us. Santa had even filled their stockings, and they were to be included in the festivities.

As the presents were opened and paper and ribbons scattered about the room, Wells was enjoying all the elements of the day. After about two-thirds of the gifts were opened, I happened to notice poor Monty, frozen like a statue under a table. His eyes were wide and his ears were laid back in agitation. I followed his motionless, terrorized gaze straight to… the Christmas tree.

For weeks we had kept a fence between the tree and the cat, but this morning we had mercilessly unleashed the tree upon him! There must be something terrible and dangerous about this large, green thing that we had to tie up with cords of lights, and contain within a gate. Now it was loose, and in the very same room with him!

Once we realized the cause of Monty’s terror, we quickly fenced the tree back up. Monty was visibly relieved, though he took a while to calm down. Soon, however, he was wandering about the room, sniffing at trails of ribbons and playing with some new catnip-filled mice Santa had brought for him. If we would so much as go near the area where the gate opened, the cat shot back beneath the table until he was certain the tree was not being set loose again. A week after New Years, Monty’s life returned to normal when the tree was dismantled (by the humans), boxed up and removed to the storage shed in the back yard.

Perhaps next year we’ll decorate a large, sturdy scratching post, and simply keep the presents in the closet until Christmas morning. Then again, it’s far more fun to witness a cat in fear for his life over a plastic tree. I suppose even trees may enjoy a little revenge every now and again.

Nesting

Why is it that somewhere in the 8^th month of pregnancy, human mothers are over-taken by a sudden and irresistible urge to clean everything in their paths? This “nesting” is not to be confused with spring cleaning. The activities encompassed by “nesting” may include such things as sanitizing the insides of cabinets, using a toothbrush to clean the grout behind the toilet, vacuuming or otherwise airing the box-springs and mattresses on all the beds and using a vacuum attachment to suck the dirt from behind the baseboards, to mention a few. Creative women will find many other cleaning activities to keep themselves busy over this nesting period that would confound the most obsessive-compulsive cleaner.

I can remember squeezing (wedging) myself between the shower and toilet to remove the scum that had built up in the crevasse between the back of the toilet tank and the wall. If my unborn child thought the accommodations were tight already, he had another thing coming until that scum was gone! I have often wondered if this cleaning spree created or otherwise affected his ability at age eight to put his ankles behind his head – a talent he loves to show off at the most unusual of times. Thank goodness I have recently been able to curb his habit of inquiring of people at the grocery store, “you wanna see me lick my nipple?”

The nesting phase can also be blamed for some of the unusual creations that appeared about my house. Though generally I can not be classified as the “domestic” type, I was guilty of sewing a quilt for my first baby. Well, it’s supposed to be a quilt. I’ve never been one for tedious measurements, or sewing straight lines. I still have the thing, too. I take it out whenever I need a good laugh.

It was at that same time that I also scrubbed the horses’ barn from top to bottom. Perhaps this was some odd form of “Mary Complex” for those of us who are concerned we might have to lay our child in a manger around tax time. Though the horses were amicable to the changes, I doubt they noticed the lack of cob webs or dust and they efficiently had the barn back to its original working condition within days.

Of course by then I had moved on to my truck. I vacuumed under the seats and cleaned the jack and lug wrench, too. I thought about having the bed-liner removed so I could wash underneath it, but gave that idea up when I realized I’d have to store the liner in the dirty basement. And that got me started on the basement! I swept the cinderblock walls and cement floor before hosing the whole thing down with bleach and scrubbing the underside of the steps.

Having bred dogs for a number of years, I noticed this behavior is not limited to the human species. Nesting does, however, take on a slightly different form for dogs. My Boston Terrier, Maggie, used to find dirty socks and old newspaper to line her whelping box. In contrast, I was washing the new crib sheets on a bi-weekly basis starting two months prior to my son’s birth. Though Maggie would sit and stay, I never was successful in teaching her to vacuum or dust during her nesting phase. On the other hand, like me, she was very good at cleaning her dish throughout her pregnancy.

Perhaps nesting with my second child will be different. As I sit here and write, I’m 19 weeks pregnant and already thinking about all the things that need to be done before the baby is born. Though we’ve already registered for the baby necessities, I still have to vacuum the back yard, steam-clean the trampoline, disinfect the cats, wash all the dog's clothes and purify one Texas lake. At least this house doesn’t have a basement!