5 Years

It was five years ago today that I sat on the floor next to the couch with my younger sister, holding my brother's hand and hoping against hope for a miracle that I knew would never come.  The day (actually, that whole week) is so indelibly emblazoned in my mind that I can't think of anything else when I think of my only brother.  That might be the greatest tragedy for me in the death of my 44-year-old brother:  That all I can remember of this man who was so full of life is his death.  (Notice, I said "for me."  Obviously, his wife, his sons, my parents, and my sisters all have their own personal tragedies in his death.)

I know that isn't what he wanted--for me to remember the ugliness of a death by cancer over the beauty of his 44 years before that.  There's nothing I can do to change it, though.  I've tried.  I've attempted to force myself to think of happier times, of sunny memories, of smiles and laughs.  But when I do, I find myself remembering photographs.  Pictures.  Frozen moments.  Still images.  I can't conjure one honest memory of him telling a joke or a story or of a discussion we had, except for a conversation when he told me that he had accepted that he was not going to survive his cancer.  That's the only "living" memory I have of him.  And though he was quite upbeat and sincere and positive that day, that isn't enough for me.

I want to remember Mikey.  I want to remember him flipping pancakes and "Mikey Special" sandwiches.  I want to remember the corny jokes he told at the dinner table and the funny stories from work.  I want to remember him playing with his boys and cradling the newest baby in the family.

Actually, that wouldn't be be enough for me either.  If I'm honest, what I really want is to be making memories with him now.  I want him to cradle my baby.  (Oh, how much he would love her.)  I want to see him on the sideline coaching Ryan's and Tyler's soccer games.  I want to hear new jokes and stories from work.  I want to have him visit my home and flip pancakes for him.  But I'll never have that.  And if I can't have that, then I at least want to have happy memories, not memories of life escaping him with every labored breath.

In the last five years, the thought has crossed my mind so many times that maybe if I just talked about those last days with someone, I could finally escape the vivid memories of my brother's death.  It would be like releasing his ghost:  There.  I've spoken it.  The sick and dying Mikey can go now.  So the other night I told my husband some of the things that I could bring myself to speak.  (Some things remained too awful to say out loud.)  I talked and talked, anticipating this big release, this huge...aaawwwww.  But it didn't come.  The ghost was still there. 

So what do I do now?

I guess I just have to move on from it.  I have to accept that my memories are not what I (or Mikey) wanted them to be, but I can't change that.  Instead, I have to "remember" him in the way that I go on living.  I have to love my child the way that he loved his boys--completely, unconditionally, and with every fiber of his being.  I have to love and respect my husband and make every day of our marriage count as he did with his wife.  I have to be kind and compassionate and selfless with every person who comes into my life, just like he was every single day.  And I have to be open to God and accept whatever he gives me, no matter what.  That is how I have to "remember" my brother.  I think he would be satisfied with that. 

The Part Where I Marvel That It's Been One Year

On this day one year ago, I was anxiously awaiting my weekly appointment with my obstetrician.  It was a Tuesday, and I was 6 days past my due date with my first child.  My blood pressure had started creeping up over the weekend; and though it wasn't really dangerously high, I had high hopes that my doctor would go ahead and induce labor.

A quick examination made clear that I probably wasn't going to go into labor on my own anytime soon.  However, as I had hoped, my elevated blood pressure bought me a ticket to labor and delivery.  The plan:  Thin my cervix over the course of the evening and induce labor the next morning.  Well, as we all know, the plan had to be B-planned in favor of a c-section.  At 10:51pm on Tuesday, November 8, 2011, Molly was born.

She was a mere six pounds and six ounces, her head fitting easily in the palm of my hand.  She cried like a cat, mewing to let us know that she was cold or hungry or just tired.  She looked like any one of the 14 babies my sisters had borne over the previous 26 years, but this one was mine.

The other night, my husband sat on the couch and remembered the evening.  We each had very distinct experiences.  Mine was full of anxiety and loneliness.  The surgery into which he wasn't allowed until they were literally making the incision, the quick peek at the baby, the shuffling off of my husband and child to the nursery while I remained on the table, the recovery room where the poor nurse had not a single bit of information to answer my questions about my daughter (weight? length? health?)--all these things came together to leave me feeling sad and alone on the greatest night of my life.

My husband, on the other hand, was assaulted on all fronts by feelings of worry (for me), overwhelming joy, and absolute fear.  I doubt he had ever held a baby so small, but there he was being commanded to carry this tiny, precious infant down a hall and into the nursery.  "Do this...hold that...take a picture of this...do that."  All the while, he was wondering about me and trying to hold off my parents.  (While I was wondering and asking all my unanswerable questions about Molly, my husband was doing to same about me.)

It wasn't until about 2am that we all came together as a family of three in the quiet and dark of a hospital room.  I'm sure my husband and I spoke, but I don't remember what we said.  It's not as important as what wasn't said anyway. 

We spent four days in the hospital before coming home.  (My blood pressure took its sweet time coming back down.)  Once home, my parents stayed for not quite a week before leaving us to get on with our lives alone.  Together.  The three of us.

I distinctly remember rocking this tiny creature in an easy chair in the middle of the night thinking, Don't take this for granted.  Soak it in.  In a year, you'll wonder how you got so far so fast.  For weeks, months, I tried to burn moments into my brain.  And for a while, time seemed to be working with me.  Days didn't drag, but they didn't pass quickly either.  But then somewhere along the line, routines became, well, routine.  Days began to pass with increasing speed, and moments became tangled up with laundry and dishwater and formula.  Nine months spilled over into ten, which melted into eleven; and suddenly, that tiny baby whose head fit so wonderfully in the palm of my hand was a year old.

It's so cliche to wonder how time passed so quickly.  What mother hasn't asked where the year went?  I don't know what to say but that despite my best intentions, time slipped through my fingers.  And it's so depressing to know that in exactly one year, I will be asking that same question again--Where did the time go?  No matter how hard I try, I can't make it slow down.  I can't make myself commit to every single moment.  I can't stop Molly from growing and changing, sometimes--quite literally--overnight.

But at least I have this:  Even as I sit here typing this, I can hear my baby girl crying like a cat as she wakes up from her afternoon nap, just like she did on that first night one year ago.

Oh, You Can't Find a Job With Your Degree? Huh.

So the other morning, while I was getting ready to take Molly to see her grandparents, I overheard this report on the Today Show which asked whether it was worth it to get a college degree these days.  The report featured a young woman who had gone to college, gotten a degree, but had not been able to find a job in her field of study.  In the meantime, her student loans were coming due, so, of course, she had to "settle" for a job as an account rep for some company or another.  I know what you're thinking:  Wow.  That's terrible.  God, this economy SUCKS!  But wait--let me tell you the rest of the story.  This poor young, economy-flogged, loan-beaten woman had gotten a degree in French and Italian, and her dream job was to travel the world as an interpreter.  Yeah. 

It reminded me of another report I read a few years ago about young people coming out of college, not being able to repay their student loans, and then being brow beaten by their lenders.  That story featured a young woman whose father had died when she was a young teen.  Her mother had been a homemaker, so they were left without an income.  But this girl's dream had always been to attend NYU, so even though they couldn't afford it, she enrolled there.  She took out 2 sets of student loans and her mother took out a loan to pay for her 4-year degree.  She studied some obscure branch of art history and upon graduating, promptly moved to San Francisco (one of the most expensive cities in the country) to find her dream job in some haughty gallery.  Only, she couldn't find a job.  So she worked as a waitress.  Part time.  Because she couldn't demean her NYU-educated self by waiting tables as her full time job.  So she couldn't repay her loans, and now they were leaning on her mom, too.  Those nasty student loan companies! 

Maybe I'm a bitch (people have said it), but I don't feel sorry for either one of these people or for the countless other young people like them who have no concept of reality and no respect for it either.  Perhaps I should be more empathetic.  God knows that when I chose a major, I chose biology because I liked it.  It interested me more than anything else.  I wasn't thinking, Hmmm...now, you really can't do anything with a B.S. in biology.  Job opportunities were the furthest thing from my mind when I started gobbling up courses like Spring Flora 403 and Microbiology 314.  But by the time I was a senior, I had figured out that to find gainful employment, I would have to go on and get a Master's degree and probably a Ph.D.  Another 4-6 years in school--hunkered down in a lab studying one, single facet of life no less--didn't appeal to me, though, so I put aside my wistful, naive but-I-really-enjoy-it desires and did the practical thing.  I went to law school.  Wait...huh?  Never mind.  That's not the point.

The point is, these young women--and so many of their peers--are not victims of the economy or of evil lenders.  They are victims of their own impractical idealism.  They are singularly focused on what they want and what makes them happy and what feels good.  They never think about what lies ahead or about what might not feel as good, but is practical. 

The first girl I mentioned?  I'm sorry, but get real!  There are a finite number of jobs for professional globe-trotting French and Italian interpreters, and I'm guessing that there's not much turnover in those positions.  And if you aren't the lucky one who gets one of those few jobs...well, Middle America doesn't have much need for French and Italian interpreters.  She should have had a back-up plan, like a double-major in secondary education so that she could go teach in a high school somewhere if all else failed.  Would that be ideal?  No, but I'm going to guess that it pays more than an account rep for some satellite radio company.   

The second girl?  Where do I begin?  First, take a tip from the Rolling Stones:  You can't always get what you want.  My dream was to go to Notre Dame.  We couldn't afford it.  I knew that without even being told.  I compromised my dream and went to a much less expensive school, and I had a perfectly wonderful experience.  In fact, I wouldn't trade it for the world.  More importantly, no one is threatening to foreclose on my parents over unpaid loans now.  See, this goes back to another complaint I have about this generation:  They've never been told "no."  Yes, her dream had always been to matriculate at NYU, but she and her mother clearly couldn't afford it.  Her mother should have said "no."  Her conscience should have said "no."  But she went.  Once there, she could have made the most of her situation and studied something that would have made her almost immediately employable--education, business, marketing--but instead, she studied a very particular thread of art history.  And then moved to San Francisco.  (You can't always get what you want.)  And then went without a job for months while she waited for her dream job to pop up.  (You can't always get what you want.)  And then only deigned to take a part-time job because it was just unthinkable to work full time in a field that wasn't her dream field. (But if you try sometimes, you just might find you get what you need.)

ACCOUNTABILITY!   That's the word I've been searching for this whole time.  Instead of blaming the economy or student loan venders or their colleges, these young adults need to just stand up and be accountable for the choices that they made in life.  Suck it up and deal.  They chose to chase their Disney dreams and place that ahead of the security of their future, and now they want everyone to say, "Awwww...life is just so unfair!  I hate that for you!"  Sorry.  I just can't be that person.  And it really irks me that nobody out there wants to call them on it.  Instead, they're featured in the news like little martyrs to the economy.  (Although, in the case of the first girl, the money adviser who filed the report did say, "She waited too long to get a different job.  She should have been working somewhere else while she was looking for her dream job.")  It's just gross to me because there are so many people out there who compromised their dreams, found happiness someplace else, and never even asked for a hug, let alone loan forgiveness. 

Playgroups: Healthy Exercises in Socialization or Gatherings of Undisciplined Children?

Discuss amongst yourselves.  Here, let me get the ball rolling...

Not long after Molly was born, a friend, whose daughter was about 8 or 9 months old at the time, suggested that I should look into joining her play group.  Most of the kids in the group were around her daughter's age, but, she said, I would find the group invaluable.  She said that it had really helped her to overcome the doldrums of staying at home that sometimes creep in when you have no one to talk to all day but someone who can't answer you.  She explained that I would have to apply to become a member and that there was a wait list, but with her "recommendation," I would surely be accepted by the time Molly and I were ready to get out and about.

At first, I was unsure.  I was thinking that this group must be pretty elite (or elitist, as the case may be) for there to be an application process and a waiting list.  Knowing how some women in Lexington can be, I wasn't sure I wanted to open myself up to the judgment of a bunch of Lily Pulitzer-wearing ubermommies.  "Molly isn't in Kindermusic?!  But she's already 8 weeks old!"  "You didn't buy the Peg Perego pram?!  Why, that thing's just a...a stroller!"  "You brought Molly to Starbucks in Carter's pajamas?!  Mary Blythe never leaves the house without putting on one of her favorite Mini Boden sundresses!"  But my friend kept "reminding" me to submit my application, so I did.  To my surprise--and with no judgmental interview over $6 lattes--I was accepted into the group a few days later.

Our first couple of play dates with the group went very well.  Molly was only 4 or 5 months old at the time, so she sat on my lap and just took it all in.  No doubt, the "play date" was more for me (and my sanity) than for Molly.  I was pleasantly surprised to find that not a single mom wore Lily Pulitzer or carried a Louis Vuitton diaper bag.  They were all dressed in whatever they pulled off the back of the chair in their bedroom that morning--the same as I had--and their kids were all dressed in Old Navy togs and had dirty faces.  And though they all seemed to have established friendships, they were very welcoming. 

We went to story hour at the library.  We had CPR training in one mother's home.  We pushed strollers around a little park path while the older kids played on little jungle gyms.  All of these play dates were fairly small groups of moms and kids, but I was meeting new people every time. 

And then Molly and I attended our first real play date.  I'm talking a dozen or so moms and 15 or so kids. It was a park play date.  The idea was to let the kids feed the ducks and tucker themselves out on the jungle gym, but when a big dump truck showed up to deliver a huge load of wood chips to the playground, the ducks all scattered, and the jungle gym was shut down for a while.  So, instead, all the moms unfurled blankets on the ground and plopped their kids down to play.  One by one, the moms whipped out snacks, sippy cups, and toys.  I followed suit, pulling out a few of Molly's toys, her bink, and her bottle.  Good God in heaven!  It was like I had pulled out a plate of freshly baked cookies.  Little toddler heads whipped around at the barely audible sucking sounds whispering out around the edges of the bink.  One by one, they all came to take their turn pulling the bink out of Molly's mouth and trying to put it in their own mouth.  While I had my hands full trying to gently wrestle the bink back, other kids moved in for a sneak attack on the bottle.  All around me, I heard, "Bentleeeeeeeeeey, that's not yoooouuuuurrrrs!  Here's your drink!" or "No, no, Ashton!  That's for babies!  You aren't a baby are you?"  But no one made a move to wrangle their kid or otherwise try to help me out.  Instead, the moms resumed their chatter about breast feeding and beach vacations and crock pot meals while I sat their defending poor Molly from the older kids snatching toys from her hands and trying to abscond with her bink.  I was boiling inside, but still working on that "first impression," I fought the urge to smack dirty little hands and scold little bullies.  One or two moms did try to contain their kids, but, by and large, most of the mothers sat there and watched as their kids ran amok on the sea of blankets. 

One boy ate every bite of every kid's snack but his own.  Another girl sampled each and every sippy cup in sight.  Kids slapped at each other while they engaged in tugs of war over toys.  And though there was the occasional, "No, no, Harrison!  We don't hit!" there was very little actual redirection or discipline. 

I encircled Molly and all her belongings with my legs and sat back and watched.  None of the kids really played "together."  They mostly just snatched things away from each other or slapped things out of each other's hands.  Some of the more mannerly kids attempted to hide under the safety of their mother's arms while their mothers tried to push them back out into the melee with an exasperated sigh and an eye roll.  Sippy cups became covered in the snot of children to whom they didn't even belong.  Kids stepped on other kids as if they didn't even see them sitting there.  All the while, moms talked and swatted away kids.  So THIS is what being part of a play group is all about, I thought to myself.  It wasn't about toddlers building little block stacks together or giving each other sweet little hugs or sharing a picnic of cut up grapes and Gerber Puffs (as I had so naively envisioned).  It was about moms getting out of the house and bitching about Stride Rite not carrying water socks in a size 2 while their kids "babysat" each other (and by that, I mean the biggest kid in the group actually sitting on the "baby" of the group).  I wasn't sure if I wanted to be part of it after all.  A bunch of unsupervised toddlers pushing each other down, stealing each other's toys, and sharing germs?  A bunch of moms chatting about things to which I couldn't relate while I sat their protecting my helpless baby from their clumsy and selfish kids? 

I re-evaluated my interest in being part of a play group over a few more play dates and then, mercifully, Molly's nap schedule adjusted itself to the point where most of the scheduled play dates fell during her nap time.  I'm trying to figure out my next move because God knows I could use some adult conversation, and Molly really does like being around other kids.  I really think, though, that maybe a loosey-goosey play group isn't the best avenue of socialization for Molly and me.  Maybe we should do --gasp!--Kindermusic.  Or maybe I need to find a Mom's Day Out program for Molly and just schedule lunch dates with girlfriends.  There just has to be a happy medium between mommies of children whose first names are actually last names and oblivious mommies of little monsters. 

I'm Not Suggesting That I'm Going to Serve Him a "Sneezer," But...

Let's say you were invited to a dinner party.  And let's say this dinner party was part of a monthly Supper Club.  Let's pretend that there are seven couples who are "official" members of that Supper Club, but that over the lifetime of the Supper Club (two rounds of dinner parties now), some of the couples have opted to invite non-Club members to their dinner parties on occasion.  And maybe you're one of the couples who hasn't invited non-Club members to your dinner parties.  Are you with me so far?

Now let's say that the couple who is hosting the dinner party this month decides to invite a few extra people to their party, all of whom are mutual friends of you and the other members of the group.  Let's even go so far as to say that you have invited these same people to non-Supper Club parties that you have hosted over the last couple of years.  Still with me?  Good.

Now let's pretend that you, as the guest, "reply all" (minus the non-Club invited guests because that would be unkind) to your e-mail invitation and question the host and hostess of the dinner party about their choice to invite non-Club members to their Supper Club dinner party.  Here is the question:  Would Emily Post tell you to go f*ck yourself?

I'm no Emily Post, but here's what I think:  I think it is offensively presumptuous and incredibly rude to question the host and hostess of a party about their guest list.  I think that Emily Post would say that it is up to the host and hostess who are inviting people into their home--paying for and preparing the meal at no cost or inconvenience to you--to decide who should and shouldn't be included in the guest list and that you, as a guest, should not offer your opinion on that guest list.  I also think that Emily Post would probably turn a blind eye if the hostess "accidentally" sneezed on your plate as she was serving it.

Not that I would do that if I were this hypothetical hostess.

I'm Boycotting Boycotts That Accomplish Nothing

So...who's still eating at Chik-Fil-A these days?  I'm not going to lie to you.  I am and not because Mike Huckaby told me to.   

Everyone seems to be up in arms these days about Chik-Fil-A's supposed "anti-gay" philosophy.  Is it hate speech?  Is it free speech?  Really, if reasonable minds would stop and consider the situation, Chik-Fil-A doesn't have an "anti-gay philosophy"...or any other philosophy for that matter.  It's a business entity.  It doesn't have a brain.  It doesn't think.  It's just a franchise of stores where good, hardworking, and excruciatingly polite people gather everyday to prepare chicken and serve people.

Alright, alright.  I'm splitting hairs.  But while people say they're boycotting Chik-Fil-A, what they're really boycotting is Chik-Fil-A President Dan Cathy's philosophy, which is that, according to his Christian faith, homosexuality is a sin and that marriage is meant only to be a union between a man and a woman.  Is he an intolerant hate monger?  Is he just practicing his right to say whatever he believes?  I think it's more the latter than the former.  Look, I don't happen to agree with the man's beliefs, but I also believe that what he has done is no different than what the people boycotting his company are doing--he's defending his values.  And that's why this whole thing is farcical to me.

Do I believe that homosexual couples should be able to marry?  Yes.  In fact, I believe that any person should be able to marry any other person of their choosing regardless of sex, race, ethnicity, or religion.  Love is love.  But it just doesn't offend me to the point of boycotting his restaurants that Mr. Cathy does not believe that homosexual couples should be allowed to marry.  Just as I believe that I am entitled to my beliefs, Mr. Cathy is entitled to his.  And at no point has Mr. Cathy said that he would not employ or serve homosexuals.  He simply stated that his Christian faith teaches him that homosexuality is a sin and that marriage should be reserved for heterosexual couples.  (For the record, I'm a Christian as well, but I eat shrimp like there's no tomorrow, so I'm already damned according to Leviticus.  So I might as well believe that homosexuality is not an "abomination," right?)

So what's really at issue here?  Is it Mr. Cathy's faith?  No.  Is it chicken sandwiches?  No.  The real issue here is whether homosexual  men and women should be able to marry the same sex partners that they love, and that issue cannot be resolved by boycotting Chik-Fil-A, folks.  As I said earlier this week in a Facebook debate on this issue, Dan Cathy makes chicken sandwiches; he doesn't make law.  Let's get real here:  Whether you ever eat another Chik-Fil-A sandwich has absolutely no bearing on whether same sex couples will be able to marry!  You could stop eating altogether, and same sex couples still wouldn't be allowed to marry.  If you think that's unjust, then do something about it.  No, I mean really do something about it.  Get out there and vote.  Then lobby the hell out of your legislators and Congressmen and women.  Or better yet, run for office yourself.  But carrying around a sign in front of your local Chik-Fil-A store?  What a ridiculous waste of time.

Listen, if you don't want to give this man your money, then don't.  That's perfectly respectable and understandable.  But to parade around on Facebook and Twitter and pretend like you're actually doing something to assure all Americans equal rights...you're not doing that.  You're just not eating Chik-Fil-A sandwiches.  That's all.  Again, at the end of the day, whether you eat Chik-Fil-A or Chipotle, our gay friends cannot celebrate their love the way that you and I can.

This is what annoys me about boycotts and protests.  What do they really accomplish?  90% of the time, they accomplish very little.  You want cleaner air?  Then get your lazy ass out from in front of your laptop where you spend 12 hours a day blogging about the evils of America's energy practices, stop wasting time chaining yourself to fences, and get into an engineering program to actually learn how to produce clean energy.  You want to chase corruption out of Wall Street?  Then take down your tent, take a shower, enroll in an MBA program, and become the non-corrupt business leader that you claim to want to see.  Everybody seems to want a better America, but nobody seems to want to actually do anything to make it happen.  Instead, they'd rather spends hours on end making clever signs or gathering in coffee houses for weekly bitch sessions about how we're all victims or laying down in the middle of fast food drive-thrus.  And to what end?  What makes a bigger impact on the environment--trespassing on a coal mine and chaining yourself to an earth mover or developing the technology to burn coal more cleanly?  Is the best way to get thieves off of Wall Street to camp out for 3 months in front of your local branch of Chase Bank, or is it to become the CEO of Chase Bank?  Will not eating a Chik-Fil-A sandwich get your gay neighbors a marriage license, or would it be more effective to make yours the deciding vote on the floor of your state legislature?

Two more thoughts on this whole Chik-Fil-A ridiculousness:  In another 2 weeks, no one will be talking about Chik-Fil-A anymore.  (Occupy what?)  And homosexual couples will still have to settle for commitment ceremonies conducted by their friends in their backyards.  And my final thought:  All the boycotters have done is galvanize the anti-gay marriage people in this country.  Guess who likes southern fried chicken sandwiches?  Southern fried Red State voters.  And they all went to their nearest Chik-Fil-A for breakfast, lunch, and dinner today.  So bully for you.  You just riled up your louder, more-likely-to-actually-vote opposition.  That should help the cause.

I'm not trying to stifle anyone's freedom of speech.  I'm just saying that sometimes the time and energy is better put to use in other ways.  It's one of the oldest and most truthful cliches in the book:  Actions speak louder than words.  Get out there and effect real change!

How Much is a "Legacy" Worth?

I have remained silent on Facebook and my blog about the Jerry Sandusky/Penn State/Joe Paterno tragedy out of respect for a friend and Penn State alum who reads this blog (or at least did read it before I took a 2-year hiatus), and I still respect the hell out of her, but something that was said by a former Penn State football player today in the wake of the NCAA sanctions against Penn State has compelled me to my keyboard tonight. 

This former football player, like so many people over the last several months, defended Joe Paterno's reputation, arguing that all he ever wanted to do and did do was to nurture and create men of honor, men who would go out into the world and do more important and better things than just play football.  His goal, they all said, wasn't winning on the gridiron; it was winning in life.  And I think all those people really believe that when they say that.  Hell, Joe Paterno spent the last 40 years of his life saying that.  Surely, he believed it, right?  And maybe he thought he did, but I don't believe that's really what he was focused on for all those years.  You know why?  Because he did nothing to ensure that those young boys who were being victimized by one of his own good friends and right in his own locker room would grow up to have the sort of life that he professed he wanted for his football players.  His life's mission wasn't trying to ensure that boys would grow into fine young men with the best opportunities for success in life.  His mission was trying to ensure that his football players would grow into fine young men with the best opportunities for success in life...because that reflected well on him and because, let's be honest, it translated to success on the field, which translated to securing a spot for himself in the history books. 

If Joe Paterno cared about securing the futures of young men, he would have stepped in at the first insinuation that something was going on with the Sandusky victims.  He would have put his foot down and said, "Oh, this isn't good.  This is going to hurt the program.  This is going to hurt me.  But, gosh, those boys need help.  If I don't do something, they stand no chance of having the adult life they deserve, the life I promise to my football recruits.  So you know what, I have to do it.  I have to make sure Jerry doesn't hurt another child."  But he didn't do that, did he?  Even if you don't believe that he knew anything about anything until Mike McQueary walked into his office in 2002 (which was 9 years before Sandusky was finally stopped for God's sake!), Joe Paterno had a duty at that point--according to his own profession of wanting to make better lives for young men--to make sure that McQueary's allegations were investigated.  He and his family and his defenders claim that he did all that he was legally bound to do; he reported the incident to his supervisor.  But what about his moral duty?  What about the duty he placed on himself, or proclaimed to anyway--the duty to nurture and create fine young men? 

When Jerry Sandusky continued to parade young boys through the football facilities and take them to Penn State bowl games and introduce them to Paterno's players, it should have been obvious to Paterno that his supervisor had done nothing.  Yet Paterno didn't follow up on McQueary's allegations.  For 9 years.  In the meantime, Joe Pa kept padding his record book resume with wins, and Jerry Sandusky kept molesting young boys.  And then when confronted with questions as to why he didn't do more to help those boys, he just shrugged his shoulders and said, "Well, gosh, I grew up in a time when people didn't do such things, so I guess I just didn't understand what Mike was trying to tell me.  But I did report it to my supervisor, so I did my part."  Gee, how big of you.

I personally believe what Louis Freeh concluded in his report.  What reason would he have to twist the evidence?  Indeed, he was hired by Penn State.  Wouldn't it have been better for his client and, accordingly for himself, if the evidence had been presented in a way to mitigate Penn State's and Joe Paterno's culpability?  So I believe that the administration and Paterno knew as far back as 1998 that something wasn't right.  I believe that they all sat down and discussed it.  And I believe that they all decided that, in the end, being one of the historic powerhouses in college football was more important than investigating the allegations of abuse being made to them because if those allegations proved to be true, Penn State football would have a black mark on it for the rest of time.

Of course, the irony of the situation is that in trying so desperately to preserve his legacy, Joe Paterno actually destroyed his legacy.  He died leaving a legacy of man so selfish that he put his record as the winningest coach in Division I and FBS history ahead of the safety and dignity of innocent children.  Had he stepped forward in 1998 (or 2002, whatever you believe), he may have cost himself that record, but he would have died the hero who stopped a monster from sexually assaulting children.  Instead, Joe Paterno hedged his bets, and he bet wrong.  He might have been more powerful than any other man in Happy Valley, but he wasn't more powerful than the truth.  And the truth is this:  Joe Paterno only ever cared about winning football games and promoting himself in the annals of history.  No one will ever convince me differently.  And it is disingenuous and insulting for anyone to try to argue that what he really cared about was nurturing young men because there are at least 10 young men out there who were sexually abused right under Joe Paterno's nose who prove otherwise.

50 Shades of Really Bad Writing

I'm not a reader.  Of books anyway.  I read blogs.  I read TMZ.com.  I read the E! app on my Kindle Fire.  But, really, I'm not a reader.  I know, I know...Why do you have a Kindle Fire if you aren't a reader?  The hubs got it for me as a birthday gift so I could get online and keep up with the world (mostly the celebutrash world) with a baby planted on my lap. I did quickly download a book onto it, though, to legitimize my ownership of an e-reader.  I don't know if it was the soft TV-like glow of the screen or what, but I actually enjoyed reading on the Kindle; and I managed to finish the book in a respectable amount of time. 

As it would happen, a few months before I got the Kindle, I had joined this book club.  Again, I hear you...Um, Nonreader, why would you join a book club?  A friend invited me to join so I could meet some new people and get out of the house once a month.  On top of that, I thought it would be a good way to make me read at least one book a month.  Of course, having a tiny baby and having the reading attention span of a puppy, I didn't finish any of the books on the list for the first few (pre-Kindle) months.  Accordingly, I didn't attend a single "meeting" of the book club because I was embarrassed about the fact that I couldn't add to the conversation.  Then my friend said, "You know, we never actually discuss the books.  In fact, we've decided to call our little group the Lazy Girls Book Club because none of us ever finishes the books.  Haven't you noticed that we only pick books that have a movie version?  That's what we do when we meet -- we watch the movie."

You had me at "Lazy." 

Nonetheless, and even being a said "Lazy Girl," I have made a concerted effort to read all the books that have come up since then.  Well, except for Huckleberry Finn.  Are you kidding me with that?  It's, like, almost 400 pages written in late-19th Century colloquialism.  My mommy brain can't handle that.

After Huck Finn, the next selection by the group was the omnipresent, bored-housewife-staple Fifty Shades of Grey.  I know every married woman in America except me has read the Fifty Shades series at least once, but it held no appeal to me.  I don't read Harlequin romances or Danielle Steele books.  I'm not even that into the Wuthering Heights-type of romance novels.  Besides, it's not a movie yet.  But the majority prevailed (and we settled on Unfaithful as our movie selection...yes, please!), so I downloaded the book.  From Facebook posts and morning news program pandering, I knew the book was steamy, but you would have also thought that it was the best piece of literature to come out of England since [insert a Bronte sister book here].  Imagine my disappointment when I found that (a) the smut doesn't start until chapter 8 and (b) the first 7 chapters are the most poorly written composition I have read since thumbing through the book on dogs that I wrote in third grade.

Where to begin?  Let's start with the language.  The characters are all American, right?  And yet they say things like, "Do go on through" the door and "Are they based at the university?" and "Kate is unwell today."  What publisher read that and said, "Yes!  You have captured the vernacular of young virile Americans to the letter!"  Actually, it's clear that the publisher didn't think that because the British overtones are dotted here and there (but not nearly enough) with passages that were clearly edited in a desperate, last-minute attempt to Americanize the text.  But I guess they couldn't re-write the whole book to Americanize it, so it's mostly British in feel.  Now, I get that Ms. Leonard (aka, E L James) is herself British.  However, most good authors -- if they're venturing to write about foreign subjects, foreign lands, or foreign tongues -- take the time to do a little research to familiarize themselves with the culture so they can write a believable story.  Americans would say, "Go on in," and "Do they live on campus?" and "Kate isn't feeling well today."  That's how we Americans speak the King's English.  I guess Ms. Leonard was too wrapped up in getting her pent-up sexual frustration out on paper to pay attention to details like that, though. 

Then there is Ms. Leonard's poor attempt at developing her characters.  Kate, the heroine's (Ana Steele's) roommate is described as being from an affluent family, educated in private schools and always supplied with the finer things in life (including a Mercedes CLK to drive while in college).  Yet she attends a satellite campus of Washington State University?  Huh-uh.  Not believable.  Such a privileged young lady as Kate would be attending Stanford or USC or some school back east.  Even if she practically flunked out of all her fancy private schools, she wouldn't be matriculating at WSU Vancouver. UC Santa Barbara maybe, but not WSU Vancouver.

Ana's and Kate's good friend, Jose, is described as an aspiring artist with an upcoming show of his photos at a gallery.  Yet Ms. Leonard has written him as a caricature of Latinos, constantly shouting, "Dios mio!" to punctuate the fact that his name is -- Duh! -- Jose.  A Latino man who probably spent the most formative years of his young life in America wouldn't go around shouting, "Dios mio!" all the time  I mean, Dios mio!, she might as well dress him in a sarape and have him eating tacos every time we come across him.  Oh, and, of course, he's hopelessly in love with Ana, who only sees him as the brother she never had.  So not only is he a cliche of Latino stereotypes, but he's also a cliche of unrequited co-ed love.

And then there are the two main characters themselves.

Ana Steele is the young, naive virgin that Ms. Leonard fantasizes herself to be.  She has apparently never even been kissed or been drunk when the book opens.  Really?  She's on the precipice of graduating from a state university, and she's never been drunk or kissed a guy?  Now, she's not described as being unworldly.  In fact, she's been exposed to a good bit in her short life.  Her father died when she was young, and her mother has since flitted around from one new husband to another and from one flaky business venture to the next.  Ana, in the meantime, chose to live with her emotionally-distant step-father (her mom's second husband), so you have to think that she probably pretty much raised herself, feeling her way through puberty, high school, and early adulthood.  It's hard to imagine a young woman doing all that without having at least one ill-conceived teenage romance along the way.  But we're supposed to believe that Ana has never made out with any guy, has never let a guy get too handsy with her, has never even masturbated?  Admittedly, I lived a pretty sheltered childhood.  I didn't even skip school on Senior Skip Day, I was such a Goody-Two-Shoes.  But I had been kissed by the time I left for college; and even though I went to a small, private, church-affiliated school with a "dry campus" policy, I had been drunk a few times before I graduated.  I also was no longer a virgin, but let's just leave that there, shall we?  My point is, Ana is not believable in any way, shape, or form.  She literally fights off a drunken advance by close friend Jose as if she's about to be raped (when, really, he's only trying to kiss her), but she has no trouble letting a confessed sado-masichist whos she has only just met take her virginity mere hours later?  I don't care how dangerously hot Christian Grey is, if she really has held on to her virginity so tightly and so deliberately for this long, she's not about to throw caution to the wind so quickly after seeing Grey's "Red Room of Pain."  She'd be running for the hills.  She might come back some time later looking for her curiosity to be satisfied, but she wouldn't jump into bed with this sick f*ck after so aggressively fending off a simple kiss from her best friend.

And what about Christian Grey?  Mark Zuckerberg and a small handful of other tech-based hyper-nerds managed to become billionaires before they reached 30, but it's hard to imagine that a dabbles-in-a-lot-of-things, run-of-the-mill entrepreneur would become a billionaire at such a young age.  Even putting that aside, his early character development is too artificial.  This cold, hard, singularly-focused man (as he repeatedly describes himself early on in the book) would never fall for such an unsophisticated, clumsy girl within 30 minutes of meeting her.  He suffered the worst circumstances as a child before being adopted by a successful couple.  Then he was seduced and abused at the age of 15 by a good friend of his mother, which years-long relationship turned him into the steely, emotionless, exacting, domineering sado-masichist that we find at the beginning of the book.  He's had "relationships" with 15 "Submissives" by the time he meets Ana, and he hasn't allowed himself to develop feelings for or even sleep in a bed with any of those women; yet, he almost instantly falls for some gawky, self-conscious, klutz with unruly hair and Converse sneakers?  I'm sorry, but that is so unbelievable!  He might look at her with some degree of interest thinking that he could totally dominate her in her naivete, but he wouldn't feel emotionally pulled to her.  He wouldn't just repress his inner demons to woo her (in his own creepy way) and then sleep with her within 2 days of meeting her.  I mean, I can see that he might fall for her eventually...like by the end of the book.  But before he even ties her up?  No.  Not realistic. 

So by the time I got to the sex scenes that have all married women in America tying their husbands to bedposts, I was ready to let the most base parts of me take over and enjoy the rest of the book.  Only...I couldn't.  I'd be reading along, thinking, Yeah...yeah...uh-huh...and then what??? But then Ms. Leonard would trail away from her borderline pornographic description of whatever sex act was taking place to go inside Ana's head and say something like, "My inner goddess was dancing around the room while my subconscious hid behind the couch."  Inner goddess?  Subconscious?  Really?  There's nothing less sexy to me than an inner goddess whoo-hooing around the room or a subconscious crouching in shame.  I read that, and I go from picturing some lovely, lithe, young, sensuous woman to picturing some overweight, hair-dyed-red, 40-something frump of a housewife because only those sorts of women talk about inner goddesses.  Eww.  Picturing Christian Grey with a portly housewife is gross to me.

And while we're at it, 3-minute sex isn't hot to me.  You can see it coming, and there's this build up to sex, and you're wanting to read more...but then it's over.  Just like that.  I want to scream, "WHAT?!  That's it?!  A dozen thrusts, and it's over?!"  I'm supposed to believe that this guy can go twice in a matter of five minutes, but that he can't hold on for longer than three minutes?  Again, unrealistic (to say the least) and disappointing.  But I guess that's the fantasy of a 40-something British housewife.  She wants hot sex, but she wants it to be over quickly so she can just roll over and get to sleep. It just leaves me feeling robbed.  The only thing this book has to offer is steamy sex scenes, and even those are falling flat for me. 

Admittedly, I'm not through with the book yet.  I still have about a quarter of it left.  But I'm not dying to see what comes next, nor do I feel compelled to download the other books.  I'm just meh about it.  I'm less than meh.  At this point, I'm basically just skimming the text until I get to the end.  It's like porn with a plot--it wants to be something else, but in the end, people are only really interested in it for the sex scenes...and, really, even those are contrived.

It just makes me sad that this is what motivates and inspires the women of America these days.  Are our lives really so mundane and hopelessly lackluster that a poorly written book about sexual and emotional dysfunction has us feeling like we're living again?  We'd rather shut ourselves up in a room to read and fantasize about a well-groomed, bondage-loving, control freak than to have a nice, romantic evening in with the men who actual would have sex with us?  Wow.  Why can't we just take the time to fall in love with our husbands again?  Reignite that spark that turned us into jelly-like fools every time they walked into the room?  Fantasize about sweaty, touching-allowed sex with our men who smell faintly of cut grass and Lever soap?  That's hot.

Ladies, we need help; and E L James is not the person we should be looking to for that help.

Well Now...Doesn't That Paint a Picture?

We went home to see my parents this weekend, and what an exciting weekend it turned out to be.  Friday evening, as Molly and I were playing on the floor, a little storm stirred up outside.  One of my favorite memories from childhood is sitting on the front porch, watching the lightning and listening to the thunder reverberate off the mountains, so I took Molly out to watch the storm.  It wasn't much of a storm.  A little rain...a few flashes of light...some distant rumbles of thunder.  Molly wasn't as impressed as I was, so after about 15 minutes, we went inside.  I put her to bed, and, in the meantime, my parents came home from their cat-sitting gig at my sister's house.  My mom was telling me how they had managed to lose the cat inside the house when all of a sudden, I heard this loud whistle.  "Is that...is that the wind?" I said.  We paused for a second, and that was all you could hear--wind whistling against the house.  My mom went out to the kitchen and looked out the window.  "The maple tree blew down," she said.  I ran out to the kitchen to look, and sure enough, there in the yard lay a tree.  "Well, we are under a tornado watch," she said.  Huh?  Nobody told me!  And just 15 minutes before that, it had been such a gentle storm that Molly and I were enjoying it on the porch.  (Well, I was enjoying it anyway.)  The power went off, and I ran to get the baby who, of course, had already fallen asleep.  As Molly, my mom, and I hunkered down in the basement, my dad went outside onto the back porch to assess the damage.  I mean, c'mon.  You need to start formulating your clean-up plan while the storm is still swirling, right?  He came back in, dragging sopping wet cushions from the porch furniture and said, "We lost one of the big pine trees."  Holy shit!  We have these--well, had--4 giant pines on the back of our property surrounding our gazebo and tree house.  Any one of them could crush the gazebo and/or the back side of the house.  Fortunately, this one broke off about two-thirds of the way down the tree, and the broken part fell to an empty expanse in the yard.  Thank God. 

When the storm finally ended, we all went upstairs to survey the damage.  There were 2 trees laying in the yard and a third one--another giant pine--that had suffered a crack near the top that left it leaning over a good bit.  There was nothing to be done until morning, though, so we all eventually went to bed. 

The next morning, before 7am, a guy came to the door saying that he noticed we'd suffered some storm damage and offering his service removing the trees.  He assessed the situation with my dad, quoted him a price, and made an agreement with my dad to remove the 3 broken trees.  He said he'd be back in an hour or so with a crew, and they'd "get it cleaned up fast."  An hour later, there he was again with his rag-tag crew, and they started to work immediately.  They made pretty quick work of the 2 trees in the yard, cleaning up most of the branches and cutting the trunks into pieces, but at 2:30pm, they decided to call it a day "because of the heat."  It was definitely a scorcher, so my dad didn't object.  The guy said they would be back first thing in the morning.  They even left one of their trucks in the back yard. 

The next morning, though, he came back to the retrieve the truck, but not to work.  "We're going to give the Lord his due, and then we'll be back at noon," he said.  That's respectable enough, right?  Except, my dad felt like something was up.  The afternoon before, after the crew left our house, he had driven by a local business and had seen them clearing a tree from the parking lot.  So when the guy's wife called a little later and said, "We'll be another hour or so.  We're just trying to get the guys together," my dad called her out.  He told her he knew he'd been put on the back burner, that he'd seen them cutting up that other tree.  She admitted that he was right, and 30 minutes later, the crew was at our house; but by then, my dad was pissed.  He went outside to explain to the guy that it's very poor professionalism to leave one man's job to complete another.  He said that he would have understood if they had left to remove a tree from someone's house, but that the other guy's job was no more an emergency than his own, so the crew should have finished my dad's job first.  The guy was indignant--actually, he just didn't get it--and said, "Well, there's a lot of people that needs help."  They argued back and forth for several minutes, so to try to put the whole thing to rest, I had my dad and the guy agree on an acceptable finish time to complete the job.  They each went off to their separate corners grumbling about the other's unreasonableness.  And that's when my dad said the most colorful thing that I have ever heard him say.  As my mother tried to minimize the situation and suggest that Dad should just let it go, my father said, "I'm not going to let someone shit on me and then tear out my hair to wipe their ass!"  I was speechless.  On that note, I climbed into the car with my husband and baby and headed off to visit my 2 aunts.  By the time we returned a couple of hours later, the job was practically finished. 

Three days later, and  I'll be damned if those words don't keep running through my head.  My husband is dying for an occasion to use that phrase.  I told him, "That's fine.  Just make sure you quote it correctly." 

(And if any of my sisters, nieces, or nephews is reading this, DO NOT tell Dad I committed this to writing!  I don't wanna hear whatever he'd have to say about it!)

Pour It On Much?

After 7 months, I pretty much have the non-verbal communication thing down with Molly.  I can easily distinguish between the "I'm Hungry," the "I'm Sleepy," the "I'm Stuck on My Belly" (aka, the "I'm Too Lazy to Roll Myself Over"), the "I'm Hurt", and the "It's Only Funny When I Sneeze" cries.  She cries and, for the most part, I react quickly with whatever it is that she needs.  (Listen, if it's 3:12am, and I'm getting the "I'm Too Lazy to Roll Myself Over" cry, I'm not going to break my neck to get there.)  For 7 months, we have communicated almost flawlessly considering that all she can "say" is "muh-muh-muh-muh" and "duh-duh-duh-duh."

Apparently, though, Molly doesn't feel like she's getting her point across anymore.  So when you're an infant, and all you can do to convey your feelings is cry, and you don't feel like your run-of-the-mill crying is working anymore, what do you do?  You pour it on a little thicker.  The normal morning breakfast whine turns into all out wailing, with loud, screeching sobs; an exaggerated pout; and red, but tearless eyes.  The regular grunt of frustration becomes a guttural cry that would lead most people to believe that your intestines are being pulled out by a buzzard.  The sleepy whimper cuing nap time morphs into irrational screaming and back arching. Yes, you become an all-out drama queen.

I had no idea that a child who can't even crawl yet could form the thought to try to manipulate you with some big Broadway production of a fit, but for the last 2 days, that is what I have gotten from Molly.  Of course, crying louder, grunting to the point of choking yourself, and screaming at the top of your lungs will not make your food warm up any faster, and they won't turn Mama into an Olympic sprinter.  I don't think she cares, though.  I think she just wants to let me know that I should never get too comfortable in our relationship...

It's the Next Generation, Stupid!

Everyday, people rant and rave about all these different things that are sure to bring about the ruin of America.  It's the economy!  It's carbon emissions!  It's homosexuality!  It's socialism!  Well, it's not any of those things.  What will bring about the ruin of America is the next generation of Americans.

For years, American children grew up hearing the word "no."  They were made to sit still in church.  They addressed their elders as Mr. So-and-so and Mrs. Such-and-such.  They played "school" and "store" and spent hours outside in tree forts and playing tag.  They only got a trophy if they won something.  They would never talk back to a teacher because they knew that if they did, there would be big trouble waiting at home.  They took on summer jobs to buy the things that they really wanted. 

Those American children grew into American adults who worked hard to find success in life.  They didn't wait for anything to fall into their laps.  They didn't think that anyone owed them anything.  They didn't cry "foul" when not every little thing went their way.  And those American adults built this country and defended this country and helped bring us all to where we are today.  And, no, we don't live in a perfect or ideal America; but I promise you that in 30 years, you will look back on these as the "good old days" of America.

Have you seen this?  In this video, a bus monitor--a grandmother, no less--is bullied and tortured by the very kids that she is on that bus to protect.  They poke at her; make fun of her weight; spew profanities at her; and when she begins to cry, they make fun of her for that, too.  WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH KIDS TODAY THAT THEY NOT ONLY FEEL THAT THIS IS ACCEPTABLE BEHAVIOR, BUT THAT THEY ALSO RECORD THEIR ABUSIVE BEHAVIOR AND POST IT ON YOU TUBE TO BRAG ABOUT IT?!  Are these the people you want leading America and running our industry in 20 years?  But where else will we turn as The Greatest Generation dies?  We will be left with a bunch of spoiled, self-absorbed, over-indulged, entitled assholes running our government, steering our economy, and educating future generations.  It's terrifying.  And who will there be to blame but ourselves?

When did it become "bad parenting" to tell your child "no"?  When did it become preferable to let our children run amok to making them sit up in their chair at a restaurant?  Why is it so much easier to hand our kids an iPad than to send them to the basement to play "store"?  Does it really make the game more "fun" when everybody gets a trophy?  Since when is it OK to show your elders and your teachers disrespect?  Would you let your child talk to you like that?  What lessons are learned when you just hand your child everything they ask for?


Look, I know there have always been people in this country who were over-indulged jackasses.  But we are now faced with entire generations of them.  I know...I have 13 nieces and nephews.  I love them more than my luggage, but, my God, they are over-indulged.  Of course, it's not just my nieces and nephews, nor is it just my brothers and sisters.  All kids their age (2 to 26) are over-indulged.  It's epidemic.  Somehow, we've turned building character and empowering our children into misleading them to believe that not only is the world their oyster, but that they are entitled to a long string of pearls along with it.  We've forgotten to impart to them that pearls are actually the product of long, hard, gritty work and that sometimes the oyster comes up empty.

It's no wonder that kids these days are obsessed with the '80s (ouch, by the way).  The '80s was the "Me" generation, wasn't it?  And yet it pales in comparison to this generation that thinks you can fail to turn in half your class assignments and then complain to the dean about the 'F' you were given.  The '80s was a time when everyone wanted it all, but now we're actually giving it all to our kids, including the cell phones that they use to record themselves torturing a 68-year-old bus monitor.  The '80s was all about money and cars and big houses, but at least people were still willing to work to get it; they just worked too much.  This next generation wants the money and the cars and the big houses, but they think they should be paid the money to get those things working 3 days a week from their couch in their pajamas.  And, again, we have no one to blame but ourselves.

I am horrified to think of what Molly might want and expect in life.  Will we be able to overcome the social norms of her generation to teach her respect and hard work and compassion?  What if she was on that bus?  Would she have taunted that woman?  Or, maybe worse, would she have sat there and done nothing?  Do I have what it takes as a parent to stand firm, to say "no," but to still make her happy?  God, I hope so.  And if there are enough of those parents out there, maybe it's not too late to turn this bus of spoiled monsters around. 


As for those kids on that bus, I pray to God that they look back at what they did and are truly, truly sorry.  I pray to God that they are now embarrassed by their behavior and that they wish they could take it all back.  And I pray to God that their parents take a long hard look at their children and at themselves and adjust their parenting accordingly.  Otherwise, we are all in for a world of hurt.

Reflexive Reaction

A friend and former co-worker recently had her first child.  Born two weeks early due to some indications that the baby might be distressed, the sweet baby girl has Downs Syndrome.  From the e-mail my friend sent around, it seems that they had no indication beforehand that Baby Girl would be born with an extra chromosome.  In reading those words--Downs Syndrome--my heart jumped, and I felt this sense of pity for my friend.  Downs Syndrome...how awful.  And then I was immediately disappointed in myself.  Why was it "awful"?  Granted, the e-mail also talked of health concerns, a possible heart defect and some other relatively minor issues; but that wasn't the part that made me think the situation was "awful."  And those health concerns are the part that is tragic, aren't they?  Downs Syndrome can't kill the baby or shorten her little life, but a heart defect sure can.  Still, what keeps rising to the top of my thoughts is Downs Syndrome. 

It just makes me feel like such a jerk because I know that shouldn't evoke pity.  How many blogs have I read about families with children who have Downs Syndrome?  And they're all happy.  They're all loving and loved.  Yes, those families struggle from time to time, but by and large, their blogs aren't dominated by struggle.  They're dominated by photos of big smiles and recollections of holiday memories and stories about afternoon ice cream parlor trips.  So what makes me read those blogs and say, "Downs Syndrome isn't tragic or awful; it just is."  Yet, when it touches the lives of people I actually know, I say, "Downs Syndrome...how awful."

I used to read those blogs and think, You know what, if this were you, you could handle it.  A child is a child, and all children are blessings.  But now I wonder...what if it was me?  What if I were the one who had just given birth to a child with an extra 21st chromosome?  Would my first thought still be, How awful? 

Ten on Tuesday: Vacation Recap

1.  The first time Bill and I went to Orange Beach, AL, was in June of 2010...right after the BP oil spill.  Needless to say, we weren't able to get in the water, and you couldn't even really enjoy a walk on the beach because you had to tiptoe around blobs of oil.  This time, though, the water and the beach were lovely.

2.  Despite a really terrible forecast (there had been flooding and terrible riptides right up until the day we arrived), the rain stayed away, and the temperatures were perfect.  It was perfect beach weather...unless you are Molly, in which case, there is nothing good about the beach or the sun.

3.  Molly slept so well considering she was sharing the room with two snorers (yes, dear, you do snore) and was sleeping in a crib that I have repeatedly described as being an Eastern European orphanage-style metal crib. It was tiny, and her little feet popped right between the bars. 

4.  If you live inland, you might believe that crab cakes can only be made with 1/4 crab meat and 3/4 filler.  This is not so!  At the beach, crab cakes are chock-full of crab, and they're delicious!

5.  A mouth full of Gulf sea water does not taste any better than a mouth full of Atlantic sea water.

6.  Poor Bill...he tried to put Molly's bathing suit back on her after changing her diaper, but he just couldn't figure it out...

7.  The next time you're booking a flight, remember that Delta still serves free peanuts and pretzels (and even gives you 2 packs), but US Air charges $5 for almonds.

8.  One night, the whole conference gang went to dinner together in the hotel restaurant.  Since we were eating right there onsite, I decided to chance taking Molly, even though dinner was dangerously close to bed time.  Molly was as patient as she could be, but the service was slow, and she and I ended up having to leave even before the appetizers were served.  I didn't miss dinner, though, because Bill brought my dinner up to the room for me as each course was served.  He even brought a glass of wine with each course.  Are you jealous?

9.  Another night, we had dinner at a rib joint with Bill's co-worker and his family.  As we pulled into the parking lot, Bill and Dave were approached by an incredibly intoxicated man who insisted that they meet his equally intoxicated friend, who was a "dead man walking."  (We assumed that he meant the guy was about to get married.)  Once Bill and Dave finally broke away from the guy and we sat down at the table, Bill asked the waitress how long the guys had been there drinking.  She quickly said that they had actually been drinking at the bar across the road and had only come in to pick up a to-go order.  She then said, "Of course, while they were here they pantsed each other in front of the family in the dining room."  Nice.

10.  My husband can survive a week without his laptop.  I didn't think it was possible, but he did it.  Of course, he had his iPad...and his iPhone...

The 7th Circle of Hell is Actually INSIDE My Church

My sweet, sweet baby girl has found her voice.  Long about mid-afternoon, she starts babbling and singing and, sometimes, screeching like a howler monkey.  It's the best part of my day.  I live for it, in fact; and I'm disappointed on the days that she opts not to sing.  The problem is that she doesn't yet understand when it is and isn't appropriate to sing, so sometimes she lets fly in the middle of Mass.  We're always quick to pop the binkie or a toy in her mouth when she does, and she rarely carries on for more than a second or two; but my husband and I have discussed whether it's time to take her show on the road...to the "cry room."  We've been a little hesitant, though, because the enclosed, soundproof room in the back of the church seems like a perfect germ incubator. 

But when Molly and I were running late for Mass yesterday (Daddy was out of town), I decided it might be easiest just to sneak in the back door and slip into the "cry room."  Before the door even closed behind me, I realized that I had stepped into the 7th Circle of Hell.  A boy who looked to be about 3 years old came tearing across the room in front of me and into the arms of a woman who slowly counted to 5 in a normal speaking voice (not as any sort of threat or discipline, but as a counting game).  Then when he shrieked with laughter, she mimicked his shriek.  I took a seat in the very back and looked around.  There was little girl who looked to be at least 4 years old talking out loud through the binkie clenched between her full set of teeth, her parents ignoring her in a vain effort to make her "go away."  A 2- or 3-year-old boy was screaming and thrashing around as his mother tried to lure him away from another child's toys.  The 5 youngest children in the room--all under 15 months--were the quietest and most well behaved.  For her part, Molly looked utterly confused by the mass chaos surrounding us. 

I couldn't concentrate at all, so I decided to move to a row closer to the front, hoping that if I only saw half of the chaos, maybe I could block out the rest.  I sat Molly's car seat on the chair next to me.  The next thing I knew, her chair lurched forward.  I turned around to find that the little boy behind me had crashed into the chair.  "He's sorry," his mother said.  I wanted to say, "Are you sorry for not even trying to control your son?"  But then, no one was trying to control their child.  It was like being in the "cry room" was an excuse for not disciplining or correcting their children at all.  I never heard the word "no."  I never saw any of the parents pick their children up and make them sit quietly in their seat.  I never saw anything that I would categorize as "parenting."  It was an absolute free-for-all. 

I quickly made up my mind that I would never take Molly to the "cry room" again.  I won't let her be disruptive in church, but if I have to take her somewhere, I will take her outside.  I cannot in good conscience expose her to that again.  I don't want her to grow up thinking that she can act like an animal just because she's in a soundproof room.  I don't want her to think that just because everyone else around her is carrying on like some sort of banshee that she can do the same.  I want to her to learn that there is a time to shriek and play and have fun, but that there is also a time to sit quietly and behave.  Will she have her "moments"?  I'm quite sure she will.  And I'm also quite sure that those "moments" will come at the most inopportune times; but when they do, I intend to try to minimize the disruption of the lives of the people around us.  And I intend to do my very best to correct the behavior. Notice that I'm not presuming that I will be successful in my efforts, but I will at least put forth the effort, something that was wholly lacking in that "cry room" yesterday.

And Now I Know Why My Mom Never Enjoyed Anything

When we were kids, my mom never seemed excited about any of the things that excited us.  Christmas?  "If it were up to me, we wouldn't even put the Christmas tree this year."  Shopping?  "We're not going to the mall.  We're going to Gabe's, and that's it.  If you want tennis shoes, you better find a pair you like there."  Birthday parties?  "You had one when you turned 8.  Don't you remember?"  I just couldn't imagine how she could be so Grinchy about everything.  And the thing that seemed to excite her the least was vacation.  We'd be bouncing off the walls, counting down the days, packing and re-packing our new beach bags; and she acted as if she was about to be dragged off before a firing squad.  I couldn't understand it.  Who doesn't get excited about vacation?  What's not to love about a week away?  Why would you dread the best week of the year?

And then I became the mom, and it all seemed to make sense.

Our first family vacation was a working vacation for my husband.  He had a conference at a beach resort in Orange Beach, AL.  It started on a Wednesday, so we decided to head down the Sunday before for a little family beach time ahead of the conference.  It was a perfect plan.  I mean, what's better than only paying for half of your vacation, right?  But then it came time to book a flight.  I mean, it's not like you can drag your feet and book your flight at the last minute.  So here we were, two months before the trip, trying to anticipate what Molly's sleeping and eating schedule might look like when we finally headed to the beach.  Factor in layovers, and you're bound to screw yourself at some point, leaving you trapped on a plane with a cranky baby.  That's when I started to think that maybe Molly and I should just stay home.  But we booked a flight anyway, planning just to hold Molly on our laps on the plane.

About three weeks before we were to leave, it occurred to me that we would need a car seat for Molly once we got to the beach.  I hadn't thought of that before because we hadn't booked a plane seat for her.  We would also need a crib, a stroller, something for her to sit in for spoon feedings, things to keep her entertained, something to shade her from the sun...I started making a list and wondered what in the hell we were thinking traveling with an infant.  Had we completely lost our minds?  Luckily, the hotel had a crib; and a Google search turned up a service that would rent me a stroller, a Bumbo seat, and a sun shade.  Still, I'd have to get her car seat there somehow.  Checking the seat did not seem ideal since I didn't want it to be thrown around like the luggage I've seen loaded onto planes in the past.  So my sister gave me a heads up on this awesome car seat bag that you can carry on your back like a backpack and then just gate check it as you're boarding the plane.  List complete.

Oh, wait...but then I had to make a new list of all the stuff that the baby would need for the week:  Bottles, bottle liners, formula, baby food, spoons, supplies to wash the bottles and spoons, bibs, burp rags, bath towels and washcloths, baby bath soap and shampoo, her Sleep Sheep, extra binkies, toys, clothes, diapers, wipes...and the 500 other things that I was sure I was forgetting.  So a week before the trip, I set aside all of these things, plus my own needs for the week, thinking that I could add things to the stack as I remembered them and hoping that I would have everything covered when it came time to pack it all in a suitcase.

Speaking of packing, I had to be clever about that.  See, from the beach, my husband was going on to New Orleans for a friend's bachelor party.  He had arranged for his co-worker's wife and daughter to fly back with Molly and me so that we wouldn't have to travel alone, but, still, I needed to get everything into one suitcase because we'd have that, plus the car seat bag, plus the diaper bag, plus our friends' own bags to get out of the airport with when we finally got home.  I decided to pack everything in Space Bags, which worked great.  There was one small problem, though...the packed suitcase weighed 62 pounds.  But it didn't matter.  We had to just make it work.  There was no alternative.

In the last few days before we left, I cleaned the house like a mad woman so that I wouldn't come home to a mess (and I'm so glad I did).  Just before we walked out the door, I washed up the morning's dishes, and I actually felt good about things.  I felt ready to go.  As soon as we got to the airport, though, a feeling of dread washed over me.  When Bill hoisted the car seat bag up on his back, I wondered how I would ever be able to carry that, and the diaper bag (which I had packed into...you guessed it...a backpack), and the baby, and a boarding pass...oh, and then shed all of it while holding onto the baby to get through security.  I almost said, "You know what?  You should just go on without us.  Molly and I are just going to stay home."  But I didn't.

We somehow juggled our way through security with relative ease, but when we got to the gate, we found our flight was delayed.  All of our careful planning around sleeping and eating schedules was  foiled, not to mention that we then had to sprint through the Atlanta airport to make our connecting flight.  Oh, and by the time we got to the gate, I had to pee like a race horse.  So I ran to the bathroom, practically peed standing up, then ran back to the gate only to be chased down by two women who had picked up various and sundry things that had bounced out of my open backpack (including my video camera) as I ran through the terminal.  I got back to the gate just as they were calling for passengers "who may require extra time boarding."  Um, yeah, that's us.  By then, I was hot, sweaty, and pissed off.  I slumped down in my seat, buckled up, and waited to taxi from the gate so I could get some cool air streaming out of the little vent above my head.  But wouldn't you know, we were delayed.  Again.  For 40 minutes, we sat on the tarmac while the pilots awaited a new flight plan to route us around the heavy rain to our south.  Of course, this didn't suit the baby any more than it suited me, and she started to get fussy, which made me even more fussy.  The hubs kept referencing a "Hindu cow" and saying, "Calm...," but all I could think about was how perfectly annoying it was that he wasn't annoyed.

We eventually made it to our destination.  Let the fun begin, right?  Except, as it turns out, Molly does not enjoy the pool, the beach, the ocean, the sun, or the heat.  So our "family" vacation time was spent split between one of us in the hotel room with the baby and the other of us outside at the beach.  Meal times were a disaster because, as civilized people are wont to do, the group opted to eat at 7pm (Central) each night, which was 8pm by Molly's little Eastern Time Zone biological clock...just 30 minutes away from bed time.  So we either didn't get to eat with the group, or I would have to head back to the room with Molly before the salads were even served.   And when you're traveling with an infant who goes to bed at 7:30 (Central), you can forget about leisurely sunset strolls on the beach.  You'll have to catch the sunset from the balcony of your hotel room because the baby will already be asleep.  In fact, you better make sure you book a nice hotel room because you're going to be seeing a lot of it. 

By the time Friday rolled around, I was ready to come home.

I decided to take my chances with the car seat and check it with the suitcase.  Thankfully, we flew out of a relatively small airport, so security was, again, pretty easy.  And my traveling companions were only too happy to help with whatever I needed, God bless them.

Molly did not sleep a wink on the first leg of the flight.  She got close.  In fact, she was all but asleep when the flight attendant set up the drink cart right next to us and started scooping ice and cracking open cans of pop.  That stirred her up a little, but she did better than what I imagine most babies do, only crying a few times and only for a couple of minutes each time.  Still, I felt like everyone around me wanted to pitch the baby and me out of the emergency exit.  The poor, sweet thing was a doll during our hour layover in Charlotte, and then she slept from the second we sat down on the final leg of the trip.  Once on the ground in Lexington, we managed to get all the bags in the car and then made a bee-line for the parking garage exit only to find a line of traffic backed up from the one open pay lane.  It seems that the lines were down, so they had to run everyone's credit cards the old fashioned way--with the little sliding imprinter.  When we finally got home, I had just enough energy left to feed Molly, order myself some take-out, and put the baby to bed (a full hour early--she was that tired).

Somewhere between then and this morning in the shower, it all came together.  I figured out why my mom never enjoyed anything in her life:  Moms don't get vacations or holidays or parties.  They are always "on the job."  A one-week vacation requires at least 4 weeks of preparation and hard work, not to mention the mountain of laundry that seems to multiply in the suitcase on the way home.  Everything a mom does in her daily life follows her on vacation, only now she has to improvise most of it in a hotel room that doesn't have even half of the comforts of home. Routines are upset, babies are upset, and mommies are upset.  And for all their good intentions, daddies just don't understand why mommies can't just go all "Hindu cow" and "relax...it's vacation."  I just want to run to my mom, throw my arms around her and say, "I know now, and I'm sorry.  I'm sorry I thought you were Grinchy.  I'm sorry that you never enjoyed a single vacation.  And I'm sorry that you don't have any energy left to enjoy a childless vacation now that your kids are all grown."  And then Molly should thank her for never actually articulating all of her vacation woes because if she had, I may never have had children...

Ten, Revisited

This post was originally published on September 7, 2010.  I ran across it the other day and decided that it was one of my favorites.  Here it is again, with a few updated notes...

For a moment there, I toyed with the idea of changing the title of my blog.  "This Is Not How I'd Planned My Life" seems almost negative, regretful.  I think it goes without saying that I'm anything but regretful these days; however, at the end of the day, this isn't how I'd planned my life.  I hadn't planned to be just married at 35; I'd planned to be sending my youngest child off to kindergarten at 35.  I hadn't planned to be starting a new life and a new job in a new town all at one time; I'd planned to slip into a new routine little by little...and with the energy and enthusiasm that is only known to a 23-year-old.  I hadn't planned to have to decide just 10 days after my wedding whether I should go off the pill and try to have children; I'd planned to take a year or two to enjoy married life first.  So, no, this isn't how I'd planned my life.  But I'm not regretful about that. (Still not like I had planned, and still no regrets!)

On with the show...

1.  I have a new last name, and it's soooooooo weird to me.  Not the new name.  The new name is perfectly lovely and normal, if not a bit Anglo.  It's the concept of having a new name that's so weird because, really, it signifies that I'm a new person.  I'm no longer Lara R., single, selfish, and accountable to no one but myself.  I'm now Lara B., married, giving of myself, and accountable to a life partner.  Eek!  I hope that doesn't mean that I have to give up my Marshall's shoe habit...

(Now I have a new first name.  It's Mama.  And now I'm accountable to a totally helpless, utterly dependent human being.  This is beyond weird, folks.  We're walking on the edge of terrifying!)

2.  The other day, I updated my Facebook account to reflect this new life.  I put in my bio that I am now a Kentuckian.  It made my stomach jump into my throat.  I've since decided, though, that I'm not a Kentuckian at all.  I'm still a West Virginian; I just live in Kentucky now.  Does that mean that I don't love my new town?  No.  But the fact of the matter is that I will always be an outsider here.  Lexington and Kentucky will always be a little unfamiliar to me.  I will always be a West Virginian.

(My husband will say that we're "Kentuckians" every once in a while, and I am always quick to correct him:  "We are not Kentuckians.  We are West Virginians.  For life."  I'm just not willing to concede that.)

3.  My new Lexington address is a penthouse apartment in the middle of downtown.  From the 21st floor, I can see all the way from UK's campus on the left to the home of the Lexington Legends on the right.  Actually, I can see farther than that, but I'm not sure what I'm seeing just yet.  I need to get my bearings.

(Our new address comes with a tiny backyard and a view into the back neighbor's unfinished basement.  It's far more fitting for a family, though.)

4.  I have to admit that it's kind of hard transitioning from weekend-visit-girlfriend to live-in-wife.  I mean, I know that I live here now.  All my clothes and worldly possessions are crammed into the closets here.  But after 6 months of driving back and forth, back and forth, I still feel like at any second now, the weekend is going to end, and I'm going to have to go back to my home in Huntington and wait out the week for the next Friday.  It's kind of like how when you first get off of a treadmill, the floor feels like it's moving under your feet.  Eventually, you walk it off, but it takes a couple of strides.

(And just when you think you've walked it off, you have a baby...)

5.  I walked around my new neighborhood today looking at some of the Horse Mania 2010 horses on my block.  If there's one thing I already love about this town (besides the dining and pubs within spitting distance of my balcony), it's that Lexington celebrates anything and everything.  There is always some parade down Main Street (including a massive Halloween "Thriller" dance) or some festival on the courthouse square or some farmers' market to keep you entertained, but Horse Mania is just so different and fun because around every corner is a new horse.  LewHorse Carroll is probably my favorite so far, but I also love Bourbon Barrell.

 (I saw my first "Thriller" parade this past Halloween.  It was even more awesome than I imagined.  It's such a huge event that they actually had to split the zombies into 3 groups!)

6.  It's a little hard to think that I am now 6 hours away from home, but as my mom is quick to point out, I'm still 4 hours closer to home than my younger sister is.  Isn't it funny, though, that just 2 extra hours on the end of a trip can make it seem like you're driving to the other side of the earth?  And make no mistake:  That 6-hour trip includes 2 of the most boring hours of landscape in Kentucky and 3 of the most boring hours of radio time in West Virginia.

(Ugh...if I thought it was hard to be away from family before the baby...  What I wouldn't give for Molly to be able to grow up with my great-niece, who is just 5 months older than Molly.  Do you think I could convince my family to all move down here?)

7.  He Who Is My New Husband had to go back to work today, and (clearly) I don't know what to do with myself.  I moved in the week before the wedding and immediately unpacked 96.7% of everything that needed to be unpacked.  (I'm not a girl who can live out of boxes for more than 12 hours.)  The things that remain to be put away simply have no space at this point.  Of course, there are plenty of thank-yous to be written, and dinner begs to be cooked, but I can't seem to find my motivation.  I think I'm still on Vegas time, only with no one to sit next to me at the pool and read me random quotes from Rolling Stone magazine.

(Yeah...wait til your job is staying at home, sister...)

8.  Next week, I go back to work myself.  It will be my first day at a new job in 10 years.  How scary is that?  No, no, let me tell you just how scary that is:  I am beginning a new job in a whole new profession in a new town.  I feel like the only English-speaking kid on the doorstep of a kindergarten classroom in Beijing (if they even have kindergarten in China -- I think their 5-year-olds just go straight to a university chem lab.)  I'm starting to have major jitters and longing for my old job that I thought I had grown tired of before I knew I had to quit it and find a new job.  What have I gotten myself into?

(Um, yeah, so that new venture was kind of a bust.  Since it wasn't what I thought it would be, I decided to stay home with the baby.  Guess what? Much like switching careers from law to non-profit fund development, caring for an infant is like being the only English-speaking kid on the doorstep of a kindergarten classroom in Beijing.  But we're figuring it out.  Besides, what job could be more important or more rewarding than Stay at Home Mom?)

9.  HWIMNH is doing just fine, by the way.  He's having to contend with my homesickness and fears and moodiness and the fact that I prefer to sleep with the closet door closed so as to keep the evil sock monster from spying on me in my sleep.  I sometimes wonder if he ever wonders what he got himself into, but then I hear genuine emotion in his words when he tells me that he loves me and is happy that I'm here.  I guess he's one of those strange people who is drawn to homesick, moody, scaredy-cats with weird closet phobias.

(If I thought my husband was a rock star husband...  Talk about rising to the occasion.  This man, who had no experience with children whatsoever, has turned out to be a total natural (although he thinks he's just fumbling his way through).  I never imagined that he would be this involved, this engaged...this good at it.  I'm relatively certain that he wonders from time to time what he's gotten himself into, but I'm equally sure that he wouldn't have it any other way.)

10.  Despite all the life-altering changes and the craziness of the last several weeks, I am very, very happy and ready to take it all one day at a time.  Or maybe one chore at a time.  Like those thank-yous.  And dinner.  It won't cook itself.

(Oh, sweet, sweet nap time.  How I do love your opportunity to catch up on all the chores that have piled up.  Or...to catch up on blogging.)

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Crib

My husband has been a total rock star about this whole "Dad" thing.  Before Molly was born, the man had about as much experience with children as I have with nuclear physics.  Yet, from the moment she was born, he jumped in with both feet.  He carried her down to the nursery; and then, as I lay in bed post-c-section tethered to a catheter and tied to the bed by those weird circulation cuffs, he changed her very first diaper.  And the next one.  And the one after that.  And the next three or four.  He hasn't hesitated to feed her or sway with her or dress her.  But there is one little thing that he has not been eager to jump on:  Bathing her.  I think he's deathly afraid that he'll drop her or that she'll fall over into the water or something.

The other night, though, I sort of pressed him into service as I just could not bear the thought of hunching over the edge of the tub myself after having just dragged the vacuum up and down the stairs.  He agreed to bathe her...but only if I stood over him and watched to make sure he was doing it right. So I watched, and he washed.  He did great!  I could tell that he had gained an incredible amount of confidence from the mere fact that he neither drowned nor dropped our baby, so two nights later, I hit him up for "tubby" duty again.  This time, he only asked that I be within yelling distance and that I come running if he did yell.

But Molly was sort of fussy, so I followed them upstairs and sort of hovered in the background while he undressed her.  I didn't want him to think that I thought he wasn't capable of bathing the baby without a spotter, so I decided to go busy myself in our room.  He never yelled for help, and Molly was very good for him right up until he took her out of the tub.  Then she went all howler monkey on him.  I was afraid that might make him nervous, so I went back into the nursery while he dried her off, but he soon got the situation under control, so I slipped out again.

Once she was dressed in her pajamas, he sat down with her and read her a story (*tear*).  Then he put her to bed, and that was that.  (Daddy definitely has the magic touch with laying her down for the night.)

Somewhere around 1:30am, Molly woke up on her belly.  So I went into the nursery to flip her back over, but when I put my hand on her butt, it was soaking wet.  The crib sheet was soaking wet, too.  I cursed the new diapers I had bought and pulled her out of bed to change her clothes.  As I unzipped her pajamas, I realized that it wasn't the diaper at all...because she wasn't wearing a diaper at all.  That's right, Daddy had tubbed her, lathered her up with lotion, and put on her Js; but he hadn't put on a diaper.  I called him into the room, and, man, was he hot.  He immediately started stripping the crib while I stripped Molly.  I know he was disgusted with himself and, honestly, in that moment, I was, too.  But I know that he was so focused on, OK, now I need to make sure I dry her off well.  Then I need to make sure I get lotion on her because her skin is so dry.  Wait...are we putting a onesie on her now that it's summer?  Don't let her roll off the changing table! that he simply overlooked the diaper. Really, you can't fault the man for that.

In the light of day, it became funny.  He even told on himself to his secretary this morning.  And this evening, when I was giving him the daily poop report, he said, "Well, at least she didn't do that last night."  Praise Jesus.